OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 


LETTERS  FROM  COLORADO 


LETTERS 


FROM 


COLORADO 


BY 

H.  L. 


BOSTON 
CUPPLES    AND     KURD 

94  Boylston  Street 
1887 


Copyright,  1887, 
BY   H.    L.    WASON. 


All  Riijhfs  Rtserrtd. 


the  Up.tJe  Par 


1      \«X 


CONTENTS. 


3-53 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY     vn 

Letter    I.     ACROSS  THE  SAN  Luis  VALLEY       ...  i 

II.     ABOVE  DEL  NORTE 6 

III.  "ON  TO  SAN  JUAN"       .......  10 

IV.  A  BURRO-TRAIN 15 

V.     ALONG  THE  Rio  GRANDE  ' 18 

SONG 23 

VI.     A  MORNING  SCENE 25 

VII.    THE  TENOR'S  STORY 30 

VIII.    WAGON  WHEEL  GAP 35 

LEGEND 38 

IX.  LEGEND  OF  BELLOWS  CREEK   ....  41 

LEGEND 4; 

X.     A  POET'S  ROMANCE 47 

WHO  COMES  TO  COLORADO? 51 

XI.     LEGEND  OF  THE  DEVIL'S  GATE  ....  54 

LEGEND 57 

XII.  LEGEND  OF  SUNNYSIDE .  62 

LEGEND .  63 

XIII.  STRANGE  THEMES 66 

XIV.  THREE  PHASES  OF  COLORADO  LIFE     .  78 

COURTSHIP 7$ 

CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  MINER'S  CABIX    .  So 

A  COLORADO  IDYL 84 


iv 


Contents. 


PAGE 

Letter  XV.     LEGEND  OF  ANTELOPE  SPRINGS  GAP     .  86 

XVI.     NIGHT  AND  MORNING 90 

XVII.     MELODRAMATIC 94 

XVIII.     CAMP  AFTER  RAIN 99 

XIX.     IN  ANTELOPE  PARK 103 

XX.     LEGEND  OF  ANTELOPE  PARK     ....  107 

XXI.     A  COLORADO  TRAMP .  in 

THE  Music  OF  THE  RIVER    ....  117 

XXII.     A  NORWEGIAN  GIANT 119 

XXIII.     HISTORY  OF  A  DESERTED  CABIN    .  123 

"  WE  HAVE 'NT  ANY  HEROES  NOW"    .     .  124 

THE  RAINBOW 129 

SEPTEMBER       130 

To  COLORADO       131 

THE  STORIES    HAVE  ALL  BEEN  TOLD      .  132 

THE  CITY  ON  THE  PLAINS    ...  133 

A  PRICELESS  JEWEL        135 

XXIV.     LEGEND  OF  LOST  TRAII 137 

XXV.     RIVER-BEND  HILL 142 

XXVI.     ON  THE  DIVIDE 147 

"  OVER  THE  DIVIDE  " 151 

SLIDE  AT  THE  EMPIRE  MINE     ....  154 

XXVII.     AN  INCIPIENT  MINER 157 


INTRODUCTORY. 


On  parting,  two  Graduates  agree  to  keep  warm  their 
College  friendship.  The  story  tells  how  the  one  who  be 
came  a  traveler  kept  his  promise,  also  how  the  one  who 
remained  behind  broke  faith,  in  offering  to  the  public,  let 
ters  supposed  to  be  written  for  his  eyes  alone. 

MEMORY  draws  aside  the  curtain 

That  so  long  has  hid  the  past, 
Brings  a  troupe  of  spectral  figures 

To  the  footlights  thronging  fast  — 
College  scenes,  with  College  comrades 

In  fantastic  groupings  cast. 

Seen  as  now,  e'er  life  had  tried  them, 

They  appear  a  motley  set; 
Innocent  of  all  ambition, 

Plan  nor  purpose  outlined  yet  ; 
Caring  naught  beyond  the  compass 

Of  what  joy  the  days  beget. 


viii  Introductory. 

Till,  as  ever  among  numbers 
Thought  is  centered  on  a  few, 

Dwindles  down  that  host  of  actors 
Till  it  circles  only  two ; 

I  myself,  and  but  one  other 
Filling  all  the  nearer  view. 


Boots  it  little  what  our  titles 
In  life's  throngs  of  busy  men  — 

I,  beloved  of  Van  as  brother, 
Hal,  and  only  Hal,  was  then ; 

Van  and  Hal  we  shall  be  ever 

Should  our  lives  converge  again. 


Van  was  rich,  attractive,  graceful 
I  was  poor  and  plain  and  shy ; 

Staunchest  friends  we  were  at  College, 
Left  our  Alma  with  a  sigh, 

He,  to  travel  and  enjoyment, 
To  a  round  of  labor  I. 


He,  the  elder  by  three  summers, 
Younger  seemed  to  careless  gaze, 

That  an  airy  independence, 
Glossing  over  earnest  ways, 

From  the  outpost  admiration 
Stormed  the  citadel  of  praise. 


Introductory. 

Touch  of  art  can  little  heighten 

Real  worth  of  solid  gold  ; 
Yet  she  beautifies  the  metal 

By  a  chaste  and  graceful  mould, 
And  this  base  that  art  had  fashioned, 

Bore  the  crown  stamp,  plain  and  bold. 


Clear  my  last  impression  of  him 
As  a  ray  of  prisoned  light ; 

Standing,  full  equipped  for  travel 
Eyes  with  expectation  bright ; 

Which  I  knew  would  dim  with  sorrow 
Once  unfettered  from  my  sight. 


He  was  bound  for  Colorado  — 
"  Talk  no  more  of  classic  Greece 

Of  her  Gods  and  buried  heroes  — 
Let  them  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace  ; 

But  for  us  who  shape  the  future 
It  is  time  their  power  should  cease. 


"  I  must  scale  the  Rocky  Mountains — 

Long  known  haunts  have  all  grown  old, 

And  this  fair  new  State  is  crowded 
With  crude  marvels  never  told 

Outside  of  rugged  silver  seams 
And  streams  of  unwashed  gold. 


Introductory. 

11  Such  paeans  of  enjoyment 

My  wakened  muse  shall  sing, 

From  my  astonished  country 
A  prophet's  praises  wring, 

Till  even  my  own  hamlet 

Shall  grudging  tributes  bring. 

"  But  chiefest,  more  than  brother, 

Mine  eyes  to  thee  will  turn ; 
For  thy  quick  words  of  guidance 

In  grieving  silence  yearn, 
But  keep  their  loving  import  green 

In  Memory's  golden  urn  — 

"  To  thee  before  all  others 

I  look  for  blame  or  praise  ; 
Be  never  less  a  Mentor 

Than  in  our  college  days, 
And  help  my  unskilled  fingers 

To  grasp  the  poet's  bays. " 

The  Summer  into  gorgeous  beauty  rounded, 

Bringing  such  joyous  strains 
From  the  delighted  traveler  as  he  bounded 

O'er  snow-clad  hills  and  plains  — 

Strains  jubilant,  glad  notes  of  keenest  pleasure, 

In  vales  and  tender  skies; 
Our  frigid  English  tongue  could  hardly  measure 

His  bursting  rhapsodies. 


Introductory.  xi 

Letter  from  him,  so  sweet  delight  to  me, 
Should  selfishness  reserve  with  grasping  key, 
Nor  broad  unfold,  that  many  eyes  may  trace 
In  every  line  some  friend's  familiar  face  ? 
Less  guarded  they  may  be  in  grace  of  tone, 
As  being  written  for  my  eyes  alone ; 
But  uncut  diamonds  oftimes  pleasure  give. 
Methinks  I,  showing  these,  should  thanks  receive ; 
Pay  them  to  him  in  praises  kindly  spoken 
That  no  regrets  remain  thro'  my  faith  broken. 
For  Mentor  like  a  coward  shrank  a  duty 

Love  only  could  perform, 
It  seemed  rude  sacrilege  to  change  a  beauty 

Or  hide  a  faulty  form. 


LETTER    I. 

ACROSS    THE    SAN    LUIS    VALLEY. 

LETTERS  are  thoughts,  by  friendship  loosely  tied, 
As  flowers  in  nosegay  form  for  friendship's  pleasure, 

Where  varied  hue,  with  fragrance  sweet  allied, 
Make  gift  so  small,  a  joy  beyond  all  measure. 

'Tis  not  the  flowers  alone  nor  grateful  scent. 

All  may  have  flowers,  all  breathe  their  rich  perfume. 
Nor  weighs  the  contour.    Some  are  quickly  sent, 

With  careless  twine  about  a  simple  bloom, 

Yet  valued  none  the  less.     It  is  the  hand 

That  culls  the  nosegay  with  a  thoughtful  care, 

And  weaves  a  thread  of  heart-love  in  the  band 
With  the  receiving  hand  its  love  to  share, 

Which  gives  it  worth ;  and  letters  are  like  flowers, 

Binding  with  unseen  cord  some  heart  to  ours. 

Truth  unadorned  is  a  beauteous  maid, 
But  fairer  in  fitting  robes  arrayed ; 
I  have  not  fashioned  a  garment  yet, 
Which  to  her  matchless  form  can  set, 
Attracting  all  by  its  wondrous  grace, 
Till  they  end  by  feasting  upon  her  face. 


L  dtcrs  from  Colorado. 

Yet  hearts,  in  earnest,  achieve  at  last, 

Do  they  grasp  their  floating  anchor  fast. 

A  poet's  hope  is  a  deathless  thing, 

Will  sometimes  droop  with  a  weary  wing, 

But  trifles,  lighter  than  heated  air, 

Will  brush  from  the  plumes  the  dust  of  care, 

And  lo!   with  free  pinions  wide  unfurled, 

Tis  bidding  defiance  to  all  the  world. 

No  hopes  ambitious  are  hidden  here, 
No  freedom  hampered  by  cringing  fear. 
These  letters  are  written  alone  for  you, 
In  heart  too  noble,  of  soul  too  true 
To  seek  for  faults  while  a  grace  you  find. 
To  mercy  by  loving  faith  inclined, 
Accept  the  motive  which  prompts  the  act, 
And  merge  delight  in  the  simple  fact. 

I  pass  the  miseries  met  by  rail, 
To  moderns  all,  an  oft  told  tale, 
And  start  my  notes  upon  the  stage, 
A  fossil  of  the  vanished  age, 
A  Concord  Coach  the  classic  name 
By  which  it  shall  descend  to  fame  : 
'Tis  eight  feet  long  by  four  feet  wide, 
With  huge  expansive  power  inside, 
Embracing  in  its  padded  folds 
The  total  sum  of  thirteen  souls ! 
Two  average  in  the  aggregate, 
A  trifle  off,  six  hundred  weight. 


Across  tJic  San  Luis  Valley. 

Before  the  town  is  well  astir 
We  shake  its  dust  off  with  a  whir, 
When  our  six  horses  rush  us  out, 
First  four,  then  two  complete  the  route, 
Only  the  "clear  thro  '  "  sufferers  know, 
This  noisy  splendor  is  all  show. 

We  drop  our  live  freight  one  by  one, 
Till  four  usurp  the  Coach  alone  — 
Two  tender  children ;  no  complaint 
From  either,  at  the  harsh  restraint, 
Tho'  heat  and  dust  and  length'ning  hours 
Are  sapping  stronger  vital  powers. 

I  pay  hot  court  to  the  little  maid 
Of  scarce  five  summers,  she,  gravely  staid, 
Recounts  the  fun  of  her  brother's  freaks 
With  demurest  dimples  in  her  cheeks, 
With  eyes  of  mischief  too  full  by  half, 
But  the  mouth  breaks  never  into  a  laugh. 

He,  wee  male  lordling,  exacts  her  care 
With  his  sex's  grand  imperial  air, 
Alike  unwilling  to  yield  or  fight, 
She  stratagem  uses  instead  of  might, 
And  brings  an  embryo  woman's  skill 
To  juggle  her  petty  tyrant's  will. 

Poor  weary  baby,  he  finds  no  rest, 

On  that  couch  consoling,  his  mother's  breast, 


L  cttcrs  from  Colorado, 

Unknowing  what  troubles,  he  pines  and  frets, 
The  sweet  child-woman  cajoles  and  pets 
Till  working  some  secret  treasure  loose 
She  brings  out  of  hiding  a  "  Mother  Goose." 

She  turns  each  page  with  seductive  art, 

Well  knowing  the  stories  all  by  heart, 

Cons  over  the  tales  with  a  cunning  smile, 

Enjoying  her  harmless  cheat  the  while, — 

And  soon  the  demure,  sweet,  dimples  creep, 

For  the  vanquished  monarch  is  fast  asleep. 

The  victor  herself  is  safe  at  rest 

Five  minutes  later  upon  my  breast. 

'Tis  life  in  miniature:  Man's  free  (?)  course 

Shaped  ever  by  woman's  mightier  force  ; 

She,  proud  of  his  strength  and  lordly  ways, 

Learns  but  his  will  and  at  once  obeys, 

Misdoubts  his  vaunt  as  creation's  lord 

But  wisely  answers  him  not  a  word. 

Pie  feels  her  fetters,  he  chafes  and  frets, 

She  weaves  them  tighter,  cajoles  and  pets, 

She  has  conned  the  stories  of  "Mother  Goose," 

The  struggle  ends  in  a  sudden  truce, 

To  her  cheeks  the  triumphant  dimples  creep, 

And  the  vanquished  monarch  is  fast  asleep. 

In  solitary  state  we  onward  wind 

Across  a  trackless  waste  of  bush  and  sand  ; 
My  little  mistress  being  left  behind, 

All  else  is  dreary  as  the  stretching  land. 


Across  the  San  Luis  Valley. 

A  pale  blue  streak  denotes  the  horizon's  verge, 
One  dead,  flat  plain  smooths  out  on  every  side, 

Oh !  for  the  white  curl  of  the  restless  surge, — 
Some  hue  and  motion  to  this  desert  wide. 

'Tis  like  the  ocean  in  its  shapeless  stretch, 
Our  coach  the  ship  becalmed  upon  its  breast, 

For  tho'  we  move,  to  the  imprisoned  wretch, 
The  snail-like  pace  is  other  name  for  rest. 

We  reach  Del  Norte  after  night  is  set, 

And  have  six  prancing  steeds  to  whirl  us  in. 

Here  I  deposit  every  last  regret 
For  a  new  life  does  joyously  begin. 


LETTER    II. 


ABOVE  DEL  NORTE. 

FROM  Lookout  Mountain,  opens  on  my  eyes 
A  gleam  of  beauty  lost  from  Paradise. 
The  day  is  perfect ;  never  sun  like  this 
Touches  New  York  with  e'en  a  passing  kiss ; 
Luxurious,  warm,  his  tender  golden  rays 
Melt  in  the  distance  to  a  mellow  haze, 
And  edge  around  the  valley,  till  the  sight 
Tangibly  quivers  with  entranced  delight. 

Some  sixty  miles  to  Eastward,  lies  a  range 

From  the  main  range  a  spur,  which,  coldly  strange, 

Glides  like  a  ghostly  thing  adown  the  vale, 

Nor  grey  of  color,  blue,  nor  ashy  pale  ; 

Yet  that  same  hue  a  living  blood-red  glows  — 

When  sunset  on  the  awful  pallor  grows, 

"Sangre  de  Cristo  "  (Spanish  cavaliers 

Were  not  renowned  for  too  refined  ears), 

In  our  tongue  Blood  of  Christ.     The  chiseled  crests, 

Like  Aztec  priests  in  stoles  and  snowy  vests, 

O'erlook  the  land  of  Montezuma's  fame, 

Nor  wake  one  mournful  echo  to  his  name. 


Above  Del  Nortt. 

Words  seem  but  feeble  to  depict  aright 
The  solemn  grandeur  of  that  dull,  dead  white, 
Convey  the  sense  of  wandering  magnitude, 
Impressed  by  the  majestic  solitude. 
Those  peaks  pyramidal,  distinctly  shaped, 
Each  solitary,  sculptured  point,  close-draped 
By  the  blue  tapestry  of  bluest  skies, 
Which  deepens  near  them  into  purple  dyes, 
While  towers  above,  the  sky  and  range  between, 
Sierra  Blanca,  Colorado's  queen, 
Too  proudly  royal  to  admit  of  mate 
Sharing  the  honors  of  her  regal  state. 

We,  having  learned  some  minor  things,  do  know 
That  range  is  covered  with  perpetual  snow ; 
But  'tis  as  if  we  knew  a  foreign  tongue 
Through  its  love-ditties  beautifully  sung. 
Then  see  the  land  in  martial  pomp  arrayed, 
Strong  in  a  strength  no  legions  e'er  dismayed, 
Thrill  at  the  power  in  the  same  words  revealed 
When  as  a  ringing  war-chant  they  are  pealed. 

The  Rio  Grande  del  Norte's  silver  grey 
Betrays  his  serpentine  and  devious  way 
By  jewels  flashing  in  the  bright  June  sun, 
Showing  triumphantly  his  labor  done 
On  fertile  plains,  and  fields  of  living  green, 
Where  late  a  barren  wilderness  has  been. 

How  like  a  spirit  in  the  vale  he  glides  !  — 
Now  in  broad  view,  now  in  a  covert  hides, 


L  cttcrs  from  Colorado. 

Now  arched  by  willows,  now  an  aspen  copse 
Dots  with  bright  foliage,  banks  and  arid  slopes ; 
While  here  and  there,  a  lonely  pinion  stands 
Guarding  the  valley  with  its  waving  hands. 

The  pretty  town  Del  Norte'  at  my  feet, 
Its  busy  people  thronging  in  the  street, 
Is  girded  by  a  sparkling  crystal  band 
Of  limpid  water  from  the  Rio  Grande  ; 
Like  many  a  town  in  this  erratic  West, 
At  any  hour't  may  to  the  front  be  pressed, 
And  have  prosperity  inflate  its  pride 
By  a  Bonanza  from  the  near  outside. 

No  mining  town  ?  May  be  ;  one  never  knows. 
Summitville  flourishes  among  the  snows 
That  grace  the  Western  ranges,  beetling  brows, 
And  is,  they  say,  a  solid  bed  of  gold, 
Within  a  flimsy  sheet  of  earth  enrolled 
To  save  the  precious  ore  from  taking  cold. 

They  call  me  Tenderfoot,  and  spin  me  yarns 
A  crooning  nurse  would  blush  to  tell  her  bairns. 
The  air  is  light ;  th'  inflated  nothings  float, 
Collapse  and  sink,  like  a  child's  paper  boat, 
Nor  orator  nor  audience  deceive. 

I  came  to  see  and  hear;  —  but  to  believe 
All  that  I  hear  ?  No  faith  can  bear  the  strain ; 
She  plumes  her  willing  pinions  all  in  vain, 
Faints  in  the  effort  but  to  realize 
Truth  hides  a  kernel  in  their  pulpy  size. 


Above  Del  Norte.  9 

The  Colorado  miner  is  a  genius,  no  mistake — 
Mixture  of  vice  and  virtue,  uncertain  as  his  stake; 
Swears  by  his  Lilliputian  town  (but  just  to  humbug  you) 
With  a  grotesque  self-consciousness,  most  ravishing  to 

view, 
Tells  you  his  town  can  run  the   State,  his   State  the 

President, 
But  by  the  sly  leer  in  his  eye,  you  guess  how  much  is 

meant. 

You're  welcome  at  his  fireside  ;  his  cabin's  homely  fare 
Is  spread  with  open-handed  grace,  and  you  are  pressed 

to  share. 

A  half  contemptuous  pity  spices  all  his  courteous  speech, 
"  Pity  that  no  Bonanza  lies  just  within  (?)  your  reach." 
Your  present  wants  are  furnished,  but  his;  oh!  faith 

sublime, 
Are  drawing   compound   interest,   from    compensating 

time. 

With   pon'drous  ranges  looming,  broad  valleys  at  his 

feet, 

His  vision  only  bounded  where  sky  and  prairie  meet, 
Is  it  strange  he  fails  to  notice  the  arid  barren  earth, 
When  even  the  streams  that  feed  him,  spring  on  the 

hills  to  birth  ? 
Or  that  he  learns  to  look  on  life  thro'  lens  of   mighty 

scope, 
When  his  blue   horizon  arches   all   the   broad   Paciiic 

slope  ? 


LETTER    III. 

"  ON  TO  SAN  JUAN." 

HAVING  that  well-worn  motto  full  in  view, 

"  One  going  to  Rome  should  do  as  Romans  do," 

I've  laid  my  plans  for  starting  "  Westward  ho  !  " 

In  gypsy  fashion,  as  the  natives  go ; 

After  much  anxious  thought  I've  bought  a  horse, 

Renowned  for  idleness,  not  speed  and  force, 

And  warranted  of  gentle  disposition, 

With  no  desire  to  start  an  exhibition 

After  original  and  crude  ideas 

Of  laws  of  gravity  and  human  fears. 

"  He's  not  a  genuine  bronco  —  quarter  breed," 
The  owner  says,  who  recommends  the  steed, 
And  I,  with  queer  experiences  yet  new, 
Intensely  hope  that  but  one  fourth  as  few 
Of  antics  as  the  "  genuine  "  he  can  do. 

A  bucking  bronco  is  a  thing  of  dread, 
Takes  independent  notions  in  his  head, 
Refusing  to  be  coaxed,  coerced  or  led. 


On  to  Sau  Juan.  I 

Smile  not,   oh,  friend  !  I  learned  to  ride  by  rule, 
Bore  off  all  honors  at  the  training  school ; 
But  my  conceit  is  meeker  now,  and  cool. 

The  youngest  cow-boy  scouring  o'er  the  plains 
Has  firmer  seat,  more  skilful  grip  of  reins. 
Equestrians,  like  myself,  are  apt  to  find 
Their  studied  horsemanship  too  well  refined 
To  be  successful  with  the  bronco  kind. 
He  owns  no  curb  drawn  by  a  gentle  hand, 
And  that  he  makes  his  rider  understand. 

It  looks  so  easy,  any  child  could  sit 
Who  knows  but  how  to  manage  rein  and  bit ; 
It  looks  so  easy,  every  horseman  tries 
And  never  fails  to  meet  with  a  surprise. 
One  used  to  riding  very  seldom  halts, 
And,  without  thinking,  in  the  saddle  vaults 
From  force  of  habit  touches  with  the  spur, 
Which  trifling  act  is  apt  to  make  a  stir. 

Then,  too,  the  bronco  never  deigns  to  start 
Like  well  trained  horses  in  the  city  mart, 
But  makes  an  aimless  lunge,  describes  a  curve 
That  shoots  electric  thrills  thro'  every  nerve, 
Leaps  wildly  in  the  air,  bound  after  bound, 
Ten  feet,  often  fifteen,  above  the  ground, 
Descending,  with  his  tail  spread  on  the  breeze, 
An  angle  forms  of  forty-five  degrees, 
Places  his  head  between  his  stiff  fore-legs, 
Which,  when  he  lights,  are  rigid  as  iron  pegs, 


12  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Plants  all  his  feet  together,  lifts  his  back, 
And  you  beyond  it  with  a  spiteful  thwack ; 
Suddenly  changing  from  his  line  of  base, 
Leaves  you  suspended,  wildly  clutching  space 
'Till  gravitation  kindly  aids  your  case. 

The  power  of  matter  over  mind  here  shown 
Is  not  disputed,  after  one  is  thrown ; 
In  such  catastrophes  a  sufferer  knows 
How  little  sympathy  his  audience  shows, 
Yet  feels  no  malice.     Even  resentment  shrinks 
Appalled  before  what  a  spectator  thinks; 
His  starch  is  gone,  shouts  and  derisive  jeers 
Surge  thro'  the  portals  of  distended  ears, 
And  he  is  sure  to  find  the  mocking  laughter 
To  leave  a  most  persistent  flavor  after. 

Better  perhaps  if  I  had  bought  a  ''jack," 
Walking  beside  him  while  he  bears  my  pack  — 
A  roll  of  blankets,  coffee-pot,  tin  cup, 
Flour  sack,  with  like  substantiate  covered  up, 
Such  as  yeast-powder,  bacon  and  dried  fruit, 
With  other  little  luxuries  that  suit. 

I  should  enjoy  it  of  all  other  things 
But  for  the  merriment  my  greenness  brings ; 
I  dread  the  covert  shafts  of  ridicule 
Worse  than  a  boy  at  his  first  term  of  school. 
The  name  of  "  Tenderfoot  "  is  not  exempt 
From  malice,  in  its  pitying  contempt. 


On  to  San  Juan.  13 

Fancy  me,  solus,  by  a  camp-fire,  cooking. 

Your  fancy  could  not  paint  me  without  looking 

I've  donned  the  garb  that  every  miner  wears  : 

A  suit  of  duck,  proof  against  soils  (?)  and  tears ; 

A  hat  resembling,  somewhat,  an  umbrella, 

Which  gives  a  traveled  look  to  any  fellow ; 

Strong  calf-skin  boots, —  the  miner  is  as  neat 

As  any  city  dandy  in  the  feet, 

Proud  of  his  boot,  displays  it  every  bit, 

His  ducking  overalls  stuck  into  it, 

And  if  he  owns  that  gem,  a  shapely  calf, 

Is  vainer  than  a  Broadway  swell  by  half. 

This  whole  life  simulates  a  happy  dream, 
Outside  the  age  of  telegraph  and  steam  — 
No  cars,  few  stages,  everything  one  sees 
Tending  to  lassitude  and  careless  ease ; 
No  rush  of  time,  to-day  as  is  to-morrow 
Sufficient  for  its  role  of  joy  or  sorrow ; 
After  the  busy  swirl  of  New  York  strife 
Most  like  a  page  from  an  enchanted  life. 

Tender  blue  sky  draping  the  snowy  ranges, 
Fleecy  white  clouds,  constant  in  ceaseless  changes, 
Always  the  hush  of  unbroke  solitude, 
That  dearest  charm  to  the  poetic  mood, 
As  if  the  land  were  peopled  still  by  races 
That  walk  in  shadow  thro'  beloved  places. 

Passing  me  now  a  brace  of  prairie-schooners 
With  drivers  who  would  make  expert  harpooners, 


14  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Six  span  of  mules  their  whip-lash  reaches  over, 
Nor  ever  misses  mark  or  touches  cover; 
These  prairie-schooners  are  —  well  let  me  see, 
A  man-o'-war  on  land  instead  of  sea, 
And  carry  —  I'm  afraid  to  say  how  much, 
The  lightness  of  the  atmosphere  is  such, 
You'll  think  me  "dizzy"  with  its  airy  touch. 

They  take  provisions  over  to  the  miners  — 
Returning,  bring  crude  ore  to  the  refiners, 
Travel  in  pairs,  because  the  rugged  roads 
Play  "  Hobb  "  too  often  with  the  heavy  loads  ; 
The  second  team  unhitched,  passes  the  first, 
Aids  it  in  doubtful  places  or  the  worst, 
Thus  they  join  teams,  as  they  express  it,  "double,1 
Simple  preventive  to  a  world  of  trouble. 


LETTER    IV. 

A  BURRO  TRAIN. 

I'VE  wondered  oft,  how  Atlas  bore  the  earth, 
But  wonder  now  is  wholly  lost  in  mirth, 

For  here,  before  my  very  eyes  I  see 

Apt  illustration  of  the  imagery ; 
It  was  a  burro,  not  a  god,  I  guess 
Reduced  to  such  unspeakable  distress  — 

Among  a  motley  swarm  all  pack  and  ears 

A  walking  show-case  visibly  appears. 

I  stand  aside  to  let  the  marvel  pass, 
Tis  eight  feet  long,  brass  hinges,  French  plate-glass, 
Seeming  possessed  of  voluntary  motion, 
Starting  a  pilgrimage  on  private  notion  ; 
The  motive  power  invisible  is  quite, 
Even  the  flapping  ears  hidden  from  sight, 
I  only  catch  a  pair  of  earnest  eyes 
Expressing  just  a  shadow  of  surprise 
At  my  amusement  at  his  uncouth  burden  — 
Poor  beast!  curses  too  oft  his  only  guerdon! 


1 6  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Ah !  we  New  Yorkers  are  behind  the  times, 
Spite  of  our  love  of  dollars  made  from  dimes. 

What  business  man  would  undertake  to  pack 
An  eight-foot  show-case  on  a  burro's  back, 
Without  a  cover,  open  to  the  sun, 
And  hope  to  land  it  safe  in  Silverton, 

From  Del  Norte  a  hundred  miles  at  least, 
Sure-footed  howsoe'er  his  little  beast, 
And  over  roads  whose  ruggedness  is  even 
Worse  than  the  highway  to  the  poet's  heaven  ? 


Others  are  packed  with  mining-tools  and  grub, 
From  corn  and  flour  to  baked  beans  from  the  "  Hub," 
Hardware,  nail-kegs,  tin  pans,  in  dire  confusion 
Stoves,  axes,  handles,  ropes,  a  wild  profusion, 
Picks,  shovels,  bales  of  dry  goods,  everything 
That  man  can  want,  or  beast  of  burden  bring; 
Canned  fruit  in  boxes,  one  on  either  side, 
The  'cute  diminutive  completely  hide  ; 
Yet  on  he  trots  with  enviable  sangfroid^ 
As  unconcerned  as  any  truant  boy. 

Necessity,  the  mother  of  invention, 

Developes  art  worthy  of  highest  mention. 

Where  bars  of  iron  and  steel  too  long  to  pack 
Are  fastened  so  they  trail behind  the  jack  ; 

One  end  is  to  the  saddle  firmly  tied, 

Always  one  bar  or  more  on  either  side. 


A  Burro  Train.  17 

And,  where  of  extra  length,  too  long  to  trail, 

Think  not  that  ingenuity  will  fail ; 

Bars  for  all  purposes,  for  smelters,  mills, 
Perform  the  part  of  elongated  thills, 

Between  which  are  two  burros  hitched  in  tandem, 

With  skilful  care,  not  jostled  in  at  random. 

Like  you  the  picture  ?     Words  but  ill  portray 

The  laugh-provoking,  comical  display, 

And  fail  entirely  on  the  doleful  bray; 

I  can't  describe  it  j  I  can  only  laugh, 

He  looks  so  like  a  longing,  half-weaned  calf ; 

Mouth  wide,  head  forward,  stiffened  tail  outstretched, 

As  that  queer  sound  from  its  extreme  were  fetched. 
From  sympathy  with  that  pathetic  wail, 
Some  wag  has  christened  him  the  nightingale. 

Centering  in  force  what  it  in  beauty  lacks, 

It  has  no  rival  but  —  another  jack's. 


LETTER    V. 


ALONG  THE    RIO    GRANDE. 

I  NEVER  knew  how  beautiful,  how  bright, 
How  full  of  exquisite  and  keen  delight 
Life  could  become  with  Silence  for  a  friend  — 
None  to  exchange  ideas,  to  comprehend 
The  cause  of  rhapsodies  so  lightly  penned. 

I,  full  reclining  on  the  river's  banks, 

Accept  my  destiny  with  speechless  thanks ; 

Tis  good  to  stretch  me  in  the  sun  of  June  ; 

The  Rio  Grande  is  in  perfect  tune, 

And  the  great  pine-boughs  swaying  overhead, 

A  subtle  perfume  like  ambrosia  shed ; 

The  blue  sky  floats  some  specks  of  fleecy  white. 

Enough  to  make  its  brilliant  hue  more  bright, 

Gorgeous  wild  flowers  indent  the  slopes  of  green 

Where  the  grey,  restless  river  rolls  between, 

And  peace  —  a  tangible,  delightful  elf  — 

Has  all  this  lovely  covert  to  herself. 


Along  the  Rio  Grande.  19 

Is  the  spot  haunted  ? 

Never  such  sweetness 
Rounded  a  human  voice 

Into  completeness ; 
Liquid  and  saintly 

Floats  to  my  ear, 
Ave  Maria, 

Ave  Maria. 

Sweet  Mary  Mother, 

Night  shades  are  falling, 
Silence  and  darkness 

Closely  enwalling ; 
Thou  being  guardian 

What  should  we  fear  ? 
Ave  Maria, 

Ave  Maria. 


Ave  Maria,  trembling,  vibrating,  swelling, 

The  singer's  voice  upon  those  words  keeps  dwelling 

Now  like  a  plea  for  mercy,  now  the  prayer 

Of  some  soul  in  the  anguish  of  despair, 

Lulling  again,  before  the  prayer  can  cease, 

Into  the  ecstacy  of  perfect  peace. 

The  spell  is  broken,  a  clear  tenor  voice 
Breaks  into  carol,  a  sweet  Spanish  ditty, 
In  which  a  swain,  to  lady  of  his  choice  , 
Urges  a  thousand  pleas  to  wake  her  pity. 


2O  Letters  from  Colorado, 

Next  comes  a  drinking-song,  just  as  my  eyes 
Fall  on  the  singer,  not  with  less  surprise 
Than  had  Don  Cortez  stood  in  modern  guise. 
Shall  I  describe  him  ?  Words  can  never  paint 
The  lines  that  mark  a  sinner  from  a  saint, 
In  our  day  they  have  become  so  faint ; 
And  daily  intercourse  perfects  disguises, 
Which,  in  its  soul,  the  false  old  world  despises. 

He  represents  a  man  in  golden  prime, 

Before  one  sees  the  finger-marks  of  Time, 

He  wears  a  miner's  garb,  a  huge  sombrero, 

Is,  as  the  Spaniards  say,  a  caballero, 

And  rides  a  <f  genuine  "  bronco,  curbed  and  bitted, 

(Some  like  the  rabbits,  in  old  times  were  spitted,) 

A  brace  of  pistols  decorates  his  belt, 

Doubtless  the  coup- de-grace  they  oft  have  dealt, 

A  bowie-knife  —  I  almost  look  for  scalps, 

Or  brigands  climbing  up  the  rugged  Alps. 

He  slackens  rein,  and,  with  unstudied  grace, 
Presents  a  passport  in  his  handsome  face; 
Couched  in  his  lips  a  daring  manhood  lies, 
A  woman's  softness  in  the  deep  brown  eyes ; 
A  thick  brown  beard,  a  figure  like  Apollo, 
An  air  that  can  command  but  never  follow ; 
And  crowning  all  the  nameless,  graceful  ease, 
That  marks  the  consciousness  of  power  to  please. 

Visions  of  thieves  had  flitted  thro'  my  mind, 
But  fear  I  could  not,  howsoe'er  inclined  — 


Along  the  Rio  Grande.  21 

One  who  displayed  the  polish  of  a  court ; 
(Perhaps  the  brace  of  pistols  were  for  sport.) 

Without  presenting  "  letters,"  I  was  bid 

To  join  the  little  cavalcade  now  hid 

By  the  "big  bend."  "The  train"  had  been  delayed, 

But  would  be  coming  soon  "  across  the  grade  ;  " 

So,  with  the  jovial  freedom  of  the  State, 

We  traveled  on  together ;  stopping  late 

Beneath  a  pine  tree,  camping  for  the  night, 

Our  fire  behind  a  boulder  painting  bright 

Our  swarthy  faces  in  its  ruddy  light. 

"  The  train,"  a  score  of  jacks  turning  the  bend, 
A  dim  grotesqueness  to  the  scenery  lend. 
I,  on  my  mossy  couch,  behold  anew 
From  an  entirely  different  point  of  view, 
Comical,  earnest,  —  life  to  them  is  real, 
They  look  responsible,  whate'er  they  feel  — 
Come  into  camp  with  all  a  veteran's  pride, 
Sedately  stand  till  the  huge  pack's  untied, 
And,  as  demurely  in  the  dry  dust  roll, 
Their  simple  toilet  for  a  pleasant  stroll. 

On  the  green  sward  our  frugal  meal  was  spread, 
Coffee  and  bacon,  with  impromptu  bread  ; 
I,  who  have  fed  on  dainties,  for  the  call, 
Out-ate  the  hungriest  miner  of  them  all ; 
And  I  have  reached  one  point  of  my  desire, 
Eating  and  sitting  by  a  great  camp  fire, 


22  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Our  dusky  figures  lighted  by  the  blaze. 
The  pleasures  of  my  Saratoga  days 
Have  never  yielded  me  such  true  delight  — 
The  foot-hills  bounding  all  our  nearer  sight, 
The  Rio  Grande  singing  at  our  feet, 
No  other  sound  disturbing  our  retreat. 

We  smoked  in  silence  for  an  hour  at  least, 
Dessert  divine  to  so  divine  a  feast, 
And  then,  I  scarce  know  how,  great  yarns  were  spun, 
"  Sindbad  the  Sailor"  badly  was  outdone  ; 
The  theme  was  chiefly  San  Juan  and  its  glory, 
Each  listening  gravely  to  another's  story, 
And  striking  deftly  from  a  given  point, 
Knocking  all  former  bragging  out  of  joint. 
One  could  not  laugh,  for  it  was  honest,  partly. 
The  lies  were  huge,  but  burnished  up  so  smartly, 
That  Truth,  like  Charity,  was  made  to  cover, 
With  a  small  garment,  many  a  blemish  over. 

44  There  is  the  North  Star  on  King  Solomon," 
In  tones  not  to  be  questioned,  quoted  one, 
"  Why,  in  the  moonlight  you  can  see  the  vein, 
A  rill  of  silver,  lighting  all  the  plain 
Down  to  Arastra  Gulch,  against  the  sky 
Its  splendor  dazes  even  the  accustomed  eye ; 
Not  even  the  Comstock  of  Nevada  fame, 
So  all-deserving  of  a  world-wide  name." 

Another  said  :  "  Better  is  the  North  Star 
On  Sultan  Mountain,  famous  near  and  far 
As  mines  that  pay  from  starting  always  are," 


Along  the  Rio  Grande.  23 

Said  yet  a  third ;  "  The  Belcher,  tho'  not  known, 
With  some  development,  will  soon  be  shown 
As  best  of  all ;  for  my  part,  I  would  rather 
Own  in  the  Belcher  than  seek  any  farther." 

Each  had  a  favorite  which  he,  reckless,  praised ; 

My  curiosity  was  wildly  raised 

At  every  fresh  recital  most  amazed, 

All  took  their  turn  except  my  host,  and  he 

Preferred  to  add  his  mite^  in  melody. 

SONG. 

"  Westward  the  march  of  empire  takes  its  way  " 

And  that  is  no  bravado, 
As  any  one  of  us  can  truly  say 

Who  comes  to  Colorado, 
"  Westward  the  inarch  of  empire  takes  its  way  " 

Not  only  true  but  handy; 
For  we  can  pitch  our  tents  at  close  of  day 

Along  the  Rio  Grande. 

He  lightly  trolled  a  chorus  to  the  song, 

Flinging  the  tripping  melody  along 

The  rugged  crags,  the  hills,  the  hanging  rocks, 

Till  echo  in  a  trill  of  rapture  mocks, 

Back  comes  the  song  a  group  of  perfect  notes ; 

Out  on  the  listening  air  again  it  floats, 

Then  back  to  us  once  more,  a  little  fainter, 

Distance  but  making  every  sound  the  quainter. 


24  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Sleep  pressed  her  gentle  fingers  on  my  eyes, 

But  failed  to  chase  the  gorgeous  phantasies 

Conjured  up  by  the  fireside  sorceries, 

And  "  North  Stars  "  pirouetted  thro'  my  brain 

With  "  Pelicans  "  bearing  their  starry  train 

With  "Belcher"  lodes,  coquettish  "Highland  Marys" 

"Lookouts  "  and  "  Mountaineers  "  turned  into  fairies, 

Waltzing  with  "  Polar  Bears  "  across  the  prairies ; 

With  "lowas"  and  "LitUe  Giants"  tripping 
A  minuet,  and  "Yellow  Jackets"  tipping 
The  golden  goblets  they  were  slyly  sipping, 
And  every  mine  distinctly  in  my  dreams, 
Somehow  displayed,  developed  silver  seams 
That  fairly  crazed  me  with  their  dazzling  beams. 

I  don't  believe  that  I  am  wholly  sane  ; 

Perhaps  shall  never  be  quite  so  again  ; 

For  veins  of  silver  dance  athwart  my  sight 

Till  I  no  longer  see  the  world  aright ; 

Without  my  seeking,  fickle  Fortune   casts 

My  daily  life  among  enthusiasts, 

Whose  faith,  fast  anchored  where  no  doubt  can  reach, 

Makes  easy  converts  to  the  creed  they  preach. 


LETTER    VI. 

A  MORNING  SCENE. 

MORNING  upon  the  Rockies, 

I  meant  to  see  it  rise ; 
But  such  a  panorama 

Unfolded  to  my  eyes, 
I  really  quite  forgot  it 

'Twixt  laughter  and  surprise. 

The  "jacks"  were  rounded  early 
And  busy  on  the  steal ; 

One  chewing  up  the  flour  sack 
With  most  praiseworthy  zeal, 

While  one,  in  emulation, 

Devoured  our  morning  meal. 

Another,  as  a  dainty, 

Munched  at  a  straying  hose  : 
His  enterprising  neighbor 

Searched  for  the  owner's  toes, 
Who,  with  a  yell  of  anguish, 

To  perpendicular  rose. 


2,6  Letters  from  Colorado. 

My  host,  that  very  moment, 
From  dreams  enraptured  woke, 

And  into  such  a  volley 

Of  dubious  blessings  broke, 

The  air  was  charged  with  something 
I  hardly  think  was  smoke. 

It  wakened  the  last  sleeper, 

Also  a  savage  shout 
Resounding  as  a  Cossack's 

When  storming  a  redoubt, 
And  every  half-robed  sluggard 

Assisted  at  the  rout. 

Those  jacks  dispersed  like  magic 
At  an  impromptu  pace, 

When  back  returned  our  tenor, 
No  ruffle  on  his  face, 

Proffered  his  morning  greeting 
With  suave  bewitching  grace. 

Our  cook  was  not  so  placid, 
A  growl  continuous,  deep, 

Kept  rumbling  from  the  caverns 
Where  imprecations  keep 

Their  intervals  of  silence 
By  growing  to  a  heap. 

Our  appetites  were  whetted, 
We  swallowed  with  a  zest, 

Coffee,  and  beans  and  bacon, 
Seasoned  with  many  a  jest, 


A  Morning  Scene.  27 

For  laughter  in  a  camp-life 
Is  ever  welcome  guest. 

Then  came  the  trick  of  packing, 

But,  brother  of  my  heart, 
I  need  a  Phiz's  pencil 

Joined  to  a  Vinci's  art, 
And  Steno's  flying  ringers 

To  do  a  rightful  part. 

I  saw,  but  can't  describe  it, 

The  double  diamond  hitch 
Where  ropes  are  looped  and  knotted, 

Deft  as  a  weaver's  stitch, 
And  formed  to  a  quadrangle 

By  a  peculiar  twitch. 

This  holds  the  bulky  burden 

Securely  into  place, 
Nor  can  the  creature  loose  it, 

However  brisk  his  pace, 
Not  if  he  waxeth  wrathy 

And  starteth  on  a  race. 

I'd  ask  a  score  of  questions, 

But  think  I'd  better  not  — 
A  packer  at  his  packing 

Is  like  a  simmering  pot, 
Which  only  needs  a  shaving 

To  render  boiling  hot. 


28  Letters  from  Colorado. 

I'll  keep  my  soul  in  patience, 
Nor  risk  abrupt  digression  — 

You  know  our  modern  valor 
Is  first  born  of  discretion, 

And  always  plans  advances 
By  seeming  sweet  concession. 

The  rapid,  busy  turmoil 

Direst  confusion  seems, 
Thro'  which  no  gleam  of  order, 

Even  for  a  moment  gleams ; 
Tis  much  as  if  from  chaos, 

We  strove  to  bring  our  dreams. 

My  host  said,  laughing  gaily, 

"  Embodied  innocence, 
Are  those  tormenting  burros, 

Possess  so  little  sense 
That  man's  diviner  nature 

Is  all  their  poor  defense. 

A  target  for  our  malice, 

Our  shafts  of  ridicule, 
He  yet  has  learned  the  logic 

Of  the  world's  selfish  school ; 
To  hide  his  inward  meanness 

"  By  manners  of  a  fool." 

While  we  conversed,  moved  on  the  cavalcade 
In  solitary  file  across  the  grade, 


A  Morning  Scene.  29 

All  prankings  over,  sober,  earnest,  brave, 
Their  every  motion,  as  their  faces,  grave  ; 
We  passed  them,  and  a  brisk,  delightful  trot 
Brought  us  abruptly  to  a  charming  spot, 
Where  the  great  river  winds  thro'  aspen  copse,   • 
Guarded  on  either  side  by  towering  slopes 
Of  mountain  ridges  :  there  the  burnished  pine 
Glasses  its  beauty  till  the  waters  shine ; 
A  garnered  grove  of  mossy  brake  and  fen, 
Reminding  one  of  some  fay-haunted  glen  ; 
No  living  thing  was  there,  but  every  tree 
Spread  out  each  leaf  in  seeming  ecstasy, 
And,  over  all,  the  tenor's  voice  arose 
In  an  impassioned  anthem  to  repose. 

Nothing  is  lost,  they  say,  but  nevermore 
Will  that  sweet  song  electrify  my  ears, 

Unless,  as  a  chaste  memory,  'tis  wafted  o'er 
The  "  Haunted  Glens  "  I  see  in  coming  years. 


LETTER   VII. 

THE  TENOR'S  STORY. 

WE'VE  exchanged  cards  —  my  autograph  you  know; 

My  host's,  John  Smith !  I  hardly  dare  to  show 

I  cannot  call  him  that.      Why,  all  romance 

Will  vanish  from  him  at  the  barest  glance. 

He  must  be  simply  Tenor,  ours,  or  mine, 

And  thus  invested  with  a  right  divine 

In  a  celestial  atmosphere  to  shine. 

His  glorious  voice  is  ever  tuned  for  duty, 
Quickly  responsive  to  a  touch  of  beauty, 
Heedless  who  hears,  careless  if  all  unheard, 
He  trolls  his  songs  like  an  unfettered  bird  ; 
Seems,  like  the  nightingale,  compelled  to  sing, 
If  but  the  silent  vales  are  listening. 
'Tis  one  enraptured  holiday  to  me  ; 
Who  never  weary  of  such  melody. 

I've  hardly  tested  yet  his  gift  of  speech, 
If  he  prefers  to  ridicule  or  preach  ; 
But  as  we  ride  along,  a  vagrant  thought 
Some  merry  memory  to  his  mind  has  brought, 
And  you  may  judge,  as  almost  word  for  word, 
I  give  the  story  simply  as  I  heard. 


The   Tenors  Story.  31 

"  I  wanted  yet  of  age  a  month  or  so 

When  first  I  sauntered  into  Mexico  — 

My  sole  possession  an  unfaltering  pluck 

That  often  served  me  in  the  place  of  luck  ; 

For  youth,  reared  under  staunch  New  England  rule. 

Honors  itself  too  much  to  play  the  fool ; 

And  I,  starting  to  test  the  world  alone, 

Owned  no  defeat,  uttered  no  whining  moan, 

Buckled  my  harness  on  with  seeming  zeal, 

Resolved  to  ape  a  joy  I  did  not  feel. 

"Fate  led  me  to  a  stately  Spanish  Don 
With  two  young  daughters,  brilliant  as  the  sun, 
But  full  of  Eve  as  are  those  impish  creatures 
Branded  with  all  perfection  in  the  features. 
Nature  must  mete  her  favors  with  some  grace, 
Who  gifts  of  wisdom  have,  show  few  of  face. 
No  leopard  in  the  brake  was  slimmer,  neater, 
Than  she  called  commonly  La  Signorita, 
And,  like  a  leopard,  she  had  talons  hid 
For  such  as  failed  to  do  her  will  when  bid. 

"  Donna  Inez,  the  younger  by  a  year, 

Had  tender  eyes  suspicious  of  a  tear. 

They  were  but  just  from  Convent,  where  I  ween 

A  bright  perpetual  torment  they  had  been  ; 

For  'tis  a  freak  of  Nature,  I  believe, 

That  teaches  every  woman  to  deceive. 

Why,  they  could  mince,  and  laugh,  and  play  coquette, 

With  any  city  belle  I  ever  met. 


32  Letters  from  Colorado. 

44  My  task  was  breaking  broncos.     At  my  side 

The  pretty  signoritas  learned  to  ride. 

My  loyalty  was  often  sadly  tried  ; 

For  those  dark  gleaming  eyes  beneath  the  lashes 

Would  scintillate  as  Summer  lightning  flashes. 

Their  father  trusted  me  beyond  conception, 

My  youth,  perhaps,  precluding  all  deception  ; 

But,  stranger,  when  I  have  a  brace  of  girls, 

I'll  never  trust  them  to  the  cranks  and  quirls 

Of  any  man,  or  be  he  young  or  old, 

And  you'll  uphold  me  when  my  story's  told. 

"  Donna  Inez,  I  said,  was  shy  and  tender, 

Needing  a  fearless  gallant  to  defend  her  ; 

Yet  she  contrived  to  cheat  her  trusting  sire 

With  a  dexterity  you  will  admire. 

I  was  not  cheated  quite,  a  latent  taint 

Of  native  doubt  warding  off  the  complaint. 

It  takes  a  Puritan  a  whole  life  lon^ 

C> 

Before  his  confidence  grows  hale  and  strong 
In  any  given  person,  place  or  thing  ; 
And  then  he  holds  a  mental  reservation 
To  save  his  conscience  from  a  deadly  sting, 
And  salve  his  wounded  pride  and  approbation. 

"Don  Olen  de  Pizarro,  over  late, 

Halted  one  night  before  the  plaza  gate. 

Ever  hospitable,  our  courteous  Don 

Lavished  all  graceful  favors  on 

His  unknown  guest,  a  suave  and  grateful  guest, 

When  his  good  host  escorted  him  to  rest. 


The   Tenors  Story.   .  33 

But  at  the  earliest  dawn,  a  savage  yell 
Disturbed  our  sleep.     On  startled  ears  it  fell. 
The  honoured  guest,  with  an  accomplice,  crept 
From  the  hospitable  plaza  while  it  slept ! 
Was  he  a  thief  ?     The  lithe  and  boyish  form 
Mounted  beside  him,  poor  bird  in  a  storm, 
Was  but  the  frailest,  tenderest  child  in  years, 
To  be  reproved  and  pardoned  after  tears. 

"  Were  they  both  thieves  ?    Five  minutes,  five,  no  more 
And  their  pursuers  numbered  half  a  score. 
The  outraged  Don  close  at  my  saddle  spurred, 
And  Spanish  blessings  were  not  all  I  heard. 
My  steed,  an  Arab  of  untainted  blood, 
Knew  not  to  pause  for  roaring  fire  or  flood, 
And  soon  outstripped  the  Don  and  all  the  pack, 
Yelping  like  blood-hounds  on  a  victim's  track. 

"  He  was  a  brick,  my  valiant  Diabello, 

A  noble,  gallant,  most  true-hearted  fellow ! 

Hunting  in  jungles  to  this  sport  was  tame. 

I  singled  out  the  stripling  for  my  game, 

And  as  we  thundered  over  sands  and  boulders, 

A  wealth  of  raven  tresses  swept  his  shoulders ; 

Shy,  anxious  glances  peering  o'er  the  tresses 

Expressing  stronger  fear  than  man  expresses ; 

As  I  a  note  of  exclamation  mumbled, 

My  stallion  faltered,  grasped  the  bit,  and  stumbled. 

"  He  was  as  knowing  as  the  keenest  human, 
And  courteous  as  a  lord  to  any  woman. 


34  I-cttcrs frcin  Colorado. 

JVliy!  Donna  Inez  many  a  time  and  oft, 

d  P«**d  his  great  head  in  embraces  soft. 
"So,  when  he  halted,  could  I  urge  him  forward 
My  own  fast  oozing  courage  turning  coward' 

1  he  youngest  one  a  woman  was  I  knew; 

J  I  avoid  the  inference  I  drew  ? 
Or  that  Diabello  was  past  control 

on  the  Don  joined  us  with  a  raging  soul? 
"Escape  ?     Of  course  !    \Ve  had  no  other  «teed 

o  match  Diabello  in  pluck  and  speed 
And  he  was  lame,  limped  with  a  weary  gait  _ 

1. shard  to  kick  against  the  pricks  of  fLt' 
But  his  great  eyes  were  full  of  silent  laughter 
the  checkmated  Don  came  ambling  after. 
"Donna  Jnez  had  met  the  rogue  at  school 
Even  at  the  Convent,  where  such  stringent  rule 
Environed  all  their  budding  maidenhood 

force  an  erring  nature  into  good 
AH  her  shy  tricks,  sly  glances,  templin-  smiles 
"ere  a  light  practice  in  coquettish  wiles, 
1  hat  till  the  lagging  Olen  should  appear 
She  shot  at  any  target  that  was  near." 


LETTER    VIII. 

WAGON  WHEEL  GAP. 

A  SOLID  rampart  at  our  right 

The  Rio  Grande  close  to  left, 
On  its  far  bank  a  lowland  bright 

And  hills  by  little  gulches  cleft, 
A  few  rods,  and  the  lowland  meets 

Another  rampart,  then  the  twain 
Like  leaders  of  two  rival  fleets 

Seem  bristling  fierce  to  clash  again. 

As  Saxon  Harold's  far-famed  wedge 
With  force  behind  for  instant  needs, 

And  point  of  power  on  river  edge,— 
The  rampion  at  our  left,  recedes, 

Its  wedge  like  arm  slow  widening  out, 
A  valley's  narrow  girth  about, 

While  the  opposing  height  uprears, 
At  intervals  small  corps  of  spears, 
Nor  once  forgets  its  awful  frown, 
Or  lays  its  regal  grandeur  down. 


36  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Yet  as  the  valley  opens  wide 

Eye  fails  to  note  its  lofty  pride. 

The  rather  turns  where  bright  and  sweet 

Green  slope  and  silver  river  meet, 

And  fancy  hears  a  wondrous  song, 

In  every  wave  that  rolls  along. 

A  half  mile  stretch  the  valley  shows, 
Before  two  walls  again  enclose 
The  Rio,  whose  encroachments  lave 
Their  granite  base  with  treacherous  wave, 
Till  scarce  a  bridle-trail  is  seen 
The  rock  and  river  bank  between. 

"  Magnificent !  "  I  cry.     Our  Tenor  speaks. 

"  Wagon  Wheel  Gap !  "  like  file  on  saw  it  creaks. 

\Vagon  Wheel  Gap !  Oh  Pan,  among  the  willows 

Fringing  the  river,  left  you  not  one  reed, 
One  swaying  note  upon  the  silver  billows, 

To  help  that  mortal  in  his  hour  of  need 
That  thus  he  called  it?     The  unrythmic  name 
Suggests  no  beauty  worthy  of  its  fame  — 

With  watchtower,  turret,  buttress,  battlement, 

Clear  cut  against  the  yielding  firmament. 

Enter  we  here  the  unrocfed  barbican 

Where  guarding  moat,  covered  by  drawbridge,  ran. 

There,  wary  sentinel  a  vigil  kept 

On  the  invading  legions,  as  they  crept 


Wagon-  Wheel  Gap.  3  7 

'Neath  the  beleaguered  fort,  whence  massive  stones 
Buried  them  with  their  yet  muttered  groans. 
See  !  the  huge  boulders  lie,  as  fiercely  thrown 
By  wrath  that  matched  the  force  of  a  cyclone. 
The  Rio  Grande  washes  verdant  banks, 
That  offer  ceaselessly  their  voiceless  thanks. 
Above,  two  thousand  upright  feet  on  high, 
The  castellated  ramparts  pierce  the  sky. 

And,  as  the  eye  up-gazes,  creeps  the  chill 
Of  shuddering  awe  ;  unshapen  terrors  fill 
The  cowering  heart,  untensing  every  nerve. 
What  if  that  towering  magnitude  should  swerve 
An  atom  from  its  central  gravity  !  — 
Never  so  certain  looks  eternity 
As  where  those  perpendicular  columns  lean 
Towards  the  speck  of  blue  that  glints  between ; 
Or  man's  magnificence  a  thing  so  small, 
As  'neath  the  shadow  of  that  hanging  wall. 

Wise  ones  aver  near  here  a  lake  once  stood, 

Its  boundaries  crushed  by  some  o'erwhelming  flood 

That  sent  its  waters  thundering  into  space, 

Leaving  geology  to  track  the  place. 

In  musty  archives  of  Old  Mexico, 

A  priest,  'tis  said,  rudely  essays  to  show 

That  a  grand  lake  of  beauty  all  untold, 

Fed  by  great  streams  that  washed  the  mountains'  gold, 

Lay  in  a  mighty  canon  to  the  West  — 

Imagination  has  supplied  the  rest. 


3  8  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Better  the  Tenor's  legend  suits  my  mood, 

And  yours,  I  ween  —  if  not  as  true,  as  good. 

You  have  a  lurking  taste  for  the  antique. 

You  cannot  hear  my  charming  comrade  speak, 

And  miss  the  shades  of  humor,  quaintly  droll, 

That  add  a  flavor  to  our  pleasant  stroll. 

We  saunter  as  we  talk  beside  the  river, 

Just  where  those  towering  bluffs  can  make  us  shiver 

The  bridle  rein  thrown  lightly  o'er  the  arm, 

The  great  pine  trees  shading  us  to  a  charm  ; 

Prairie  and  range  filling  the  hazy  West, 

The  fervid  blue  wrapping  us  round  with  rest, 

And  my  companion's  handsome  figure  leaning 

Slightly,  to  emphasize  some  shade  of  meaning. 

LEGEND. 

This  gorge,  a  splendid  barricade 

Against  the  entrance  of  a  foe, 
Once  saw  a  grand  barbaric  show, 

A  gorgeous  Indian  cavalcade  : 

Pursuing  Prince,  whose  comely  mien 

So  won  upon  his  people's  grace, 
Till  he,  as  by  acclaim,  had  been 

Counted  of  perfect  form  and  face, 
And  chosen  living  sacrifice 

To  glow  upon  the  altar  stone 
An  offering  to  their  gods.     Alone 

Of  fitting  worth  and  price. 


Wagon-  Wheel  Gap.  39 

War  with  unsparing  hand,  had  given 

Him  countless  victories ; 
His  captives'  cries  uprose  to  heaven 

As  clouds  from  sacrifice. 
But  palled  these  joys  when  Love  appeared, 

Vested  in  many  charms, 
All  tender  witcheries  endeared 

By  vague  and  veiled  alarms. 

And  that  which  thro'  his  budding  years 

Had  rounded  each  desire, 
Now  harvested  a  score  of  fears, 

Scorching  his  soul  like  fire  ; 
And  renegade  to  faith,  to  all 

But  pleading  Love,  he  proved, 
Fleeing  the  solemn  festival, 

To  clasp  the  form  he  loved. 

There,  where  the  hanging  turret  stands, 

'Tis  said,  the  truant  brought  his  love, 
And  with  his  own  unaided  hands, 

Hurled  missiles  from  above. 
The  Indian  cohorts  filed  beneath 

With  martial  songs  and  banners  flying ; 
There  many  a  warrior  met  his  death, 

Where  prowess  and  despair  were  vicing. 

Two  days  he  held  his  lonely  tower 
Against  a  legion's  centered  power  ; 
Nor  might  e'en  then  his  fate  controlled  — 


40  Letters  from  Colorado. 

In  legends  where  the  tale  is  told 
Force  shares  the  bays  with  stratagem 
As  rear  detachments  closely  hem 
Their  ranks  round  the  devoted  pair, 
With  all  the  fervor  of  despair, 
He  folds  around  her  budding  grace 
The  shelter  of  his  last  embrace. 
As  with  rude  shouts  the  air  is  rent, 
He  leaps  above  the  battlement, 
And  falls  a  mangled  mass  beneath, 
Blunting  the  barbed  shaft  of  death. 


LETTER  IX. 

LEGEND  OF  BELLOWS  CREEK. 

As  on  we  move  spreads  out  a  broader  view, 

By  mountains  edged,  old  friends  with  graces  new, 

Patches  of  snow,  and  shades  of  tender  green 

At  intervals  in  sheltered  nooks  are  seen, 

And  far  before  us,  to  the  distant  West, 

A  peak,  St.  Mary's,  in  full  ermine  dressed. 

She  wears  all  summer  an  unspotted  crest. 

The  hills  beneath,  just  bursting  into  bloom, 

Show  vivid  contrast  to  the  rugged  gloom 

Of  "timber-line,"  used  here  to  designate, 

A  ponderous  majesty  that  carries  weight, 

Being  so  high  beyond  most  human  reach, 

It  merits  reverence  and  careful  speech. 

An  undulation  hides  the  upper  vale. 
Perforce  our  foreground  must  take  up  the  tale. 
The  South  side  shows  its  breeding :  stature  low, 
More  graceful  profile,  sunny,  dimpled  brow, 
With  aspens,  varied  foliage,  and  pines 
In  rounder  forms  and  finer,  softer  lines. 


42  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Our  Northern  rampart  still  close  contact  keeps, 
Not  quite  so  near  to  where  the  Rio  creeps, 
Tho'  in  as  haughty  majesty  looks  down 
From  beetling  front,  with  never  softening  frown, 
Till  suddenly  it  ends. 

A  torrent  rushes 

Beneath  a  canopy  of  willow  bushes  ; 
The  Rio  Grande  intervenes  between. 
We  breast  its  current,  and  a  rugged  scene 
Of  Northern  strength,  sublimity  and  might, 
Grand  beyond  measure,  bursts  upon  our  sight : 
Uneven  pyramids  of  uncouth  rocks, 
Upheaved  by  floods  or  fierce  volcanic  shocks, 
Here  square  their  front  in  a  defiant  shield; 
Once  to  overwhelming  pressure  forced  to  yield, 
They  dare  attack  from  any  lesser  power 
And  watch  in  solemn  calm  a  coming  hour. 

Tho'  near  the  "  Gap,"  a  differing  air  they  bear, 

Hardly  so  rugged,  for  the  outlines  wear 

The  grace  of  greenness.     Gleams  of  color  fling 

A  wondrous  freshness  where  they  deign  to  cling. 

This  torrent  has  a  "gap."     Methinks  they  all 

Were  placid  lake  or  joyous  waterfall 

In  the  fair  days  when  all  the  earth  was  new 

And  but  the  Maker's  eye  beheld  the  view ; 

Since  in  enchantment  held  by  alchemy, 

Till  the  millcnium  shall  set  them  free, 

And  send  them  lightly  leaping,  gaily  dashing 

O'er  their  old  tracks,  in  sunlight   brightly  flashing 


Legend  of  Bellows  Falls.  43 

Huge  rocks  and  leaping  torrent  —  glorious  sight! 
Our  Tenor,  watching  my  unfeigned  delight, 
Tells  me  this  legend.     Gulch  and  granite  peaks 
Bristle  with  living  armies  as  he  speaks : 

LEGEND. 

This  creek,  the  wise  ones  say,  was  once  a  river, 
Bore  on  its  bosom  many  a  birchen  boat ; 

Its  history,  for  us,  has  passed  forever, 
Saving  one  only  legend  worthy  note. 

No  deed  of  might ;  only  a  simple  story, 
Dear  to  the  poet,  few  of  words,  soon  told ; 

But  like  a  jewel  in  a  crown  of  glory, 

Does  more  illume  its  garniture  of  gold:  — 

Tezco,  a  petty  chief,  whose  greatness  shines 
Like  a  grey  ruin  overhung  with  vines, 
Had  no  ancestral  lineage,  no  name, 
Save  that  his  own  strong  hand  had  won  from  fame. 
By  gracious  manners,  from  his  earliest  years, 
He  won  the  admiring  favor  of  his  peers ; 
And  when  a  signal  service  to  the  crown 
Brought  more  substantial  gifts,  with  more  renown, 
When,  to  arrest  the  North  invader's  course, 
His  the  strong  fortress  at  the  river's  source, 
With  twice  ten  hundred  spearmen  held  in  fief  — 
Lived  in  the  land  no  more  beloved  chief. 

Love  found  him  there  —  scaled  over  rampart  walls, 
Entered  unbidden  guest  within  his  halls  ; 


44  Letters  from   Colorado. 

Tempted  his  eagle  spirit  to  defy 
All  chance,  and  set  its  soaring  flight  too  high  — 
On  Lamia,  daughter  of  a  race  of  kings, 
Who  saw,  unmoved,  his  martial  garnishings ; 
While  scornfully  a  haughty  father  spurned 
At  honors  prowess  had  so  newly  earned, 
Till  Tezco's  fiery  passion  writhing  died, 
Pierced  by  a  shaft  from  his  own  wounded  pride. 

But  the  fortune  of  war  brought  the  arrogant  sire 
With  the  monarch  of  Tezco  at  strife,  where  the  fire 
Of  the  chief's  fearless  eyes,  flashing  back  to  his  own, 
Defiant  as  fate  in  their  confidence  shone. 

An  army  behind  him,  unused  to  defeat, 
Whose  furious  onslaught  precluded  retreat, 
By  wedging  the  ranks  of  the  foe  as  they  part,  — 
Many  swords  strike  as  one  when  the  chief  sways  the 
heart. 

As  a  pine  in  a  forest  of  aspen  uprears, 

Its  crest  o'er  the  nodding,  pale  plumes  of  its  peers, 

So  Tezco,  above  the  fierce  battle  is  seen 

In  snowy  white  helmet  with  feathers  of  green. 

Arms  bare  to  the  shoulder,  his  proud  throat  is  bare, 
His  keen  falcon  glances  flash  hither  and  there, 
He  strikes  with  both  hands  as,  disdaining  a  shield, 
His  voice,  like  a  bugle-note,  sounds  o'er  the  field. 


Legend  of  Bellows  Falls.  45 

He  strides  like  a  giant  'mid  arrow  and  spear, 
He  bears  a  charmed  life  that  no  missile  conies  near, 
As  he  hews  out  a  way  thro'  a  forest  of  foes, 
Who  fall  as  the  trees  at  the  wood-cutter's  blows. 

Is  he  stricken  with  fear,  or  asatiate  with  blood 
That  suddenly  alters  the  bent  of  his  mood? 
He  pauses  with  sword  raised,  the  battle  unwon, 
While  his  breastplate  of  feather-work  gleams  in  the  sun. 

Ah  !  there  in  his  pathway,  down-crushed  by  disgrace, 
A  mist  of  white  hair  streaming  over  his  face, 
Slight  wounded,  but  pierced  to  the  spirit  full  sore, 
Lies  the  king,  and  the  strong  arm  is  valiant  no  more. 

The  space  of  a  breath  o'er  his  captive  he  stands 
A  victor,  then  dashes  the  sword  from  his  hands, 
And  kneels  to  the  fallen,  on  each  cheek  imprints, 
The  kiss  of  a  pardon  that  prince  gives  to  prince, 
And  there  at  the  feet  of  the  conqueror  died, 
Wholly  vanquished  by  love  the  last  vestige  of  pride. 

A  shout  from  both  armies  surged  over  the  field, 
Abandoned  the  sword  was,  discarded  the  shield, 
And  children  to  Tezco  and  Lamia  grew, 
In  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  covered  with  dew. 

We  do  not  ford  again,  but  keep  the  pass 
Known  as  the  "  Old  Ute  trail."    This,  progress  has 
Discarded  for  a  road  exacting  toll, 
That  pound  of  flesh  to  many  a  weary  soul. 


46  Letters  from  Colorado. 

I  am  enchanted  with  my  charming  friend, 

Keep  wondering  if  his  stories  have  an  end. 

Guessing  my  thoughts  he  speaks  :  "  In  early  d.iys 

When  jacks  were  means  of  transport,  and  our  ways 

For  transportation,  unbroke  trails,  now  seen 

As  fading  pencil-marks  among  the  green, 

I  'freighted,'  led  a  reckless,  vagrant  life 

Full  of  vicissitudes,  with  clangers  rife  ; 

Yet  learned  I  much  to  yield  a  poet  pleasure, 

Could  he  but  touch  the  spring  that  guards  the  treasure 

Legend  of  haunted  gulch  and  charmed  steep, 

Or  tale  historical,  full  good  to  keep  ; 

For,  true  or  fabulous,  they  hold  a  place 

Among  the  folk-lore  of  a  dying  race. 

"  The  Utes  dwelt  in  this  valley  when  I  came 
First  on  this  trail.     Their  chief,  unknown  to  fame 
Yet  friendly-minded,  spoke  my  native  tongue 
Better  than  all  I  met,  and  would  prolong 
The  night  till  morn,  filling  my  open  ears 
With  just  such  tales  as  youth  insatiate  hears." 


LETTER    X. 

A    POET'S    ROMANCE. 

TO-NIGHT  we  camp  upon  the  plain  — 
The  rolling  clouds  are  big  with  rain  ; 
And  waiting  for  a  burro-train 

Is  not  a  pleasant  duty. 
Our  supper's  in  those  wandering  sacks 
Which  faith  has  anchored  to  their  backs 
A  hungry  poet  sadly  lacks 

An  inspiring  sense  of  beauty. 

Our  lazy  Tenor  half  asleep 

Does  slyly  thro'  drooped  lashes  peep, 

While  merry  songs  in  snatches  creep 

Between  his  exclamations,  — 
I,  every  thought  on  supper  rife, 
Keep  wondering  if  a  camping  life 
Has  compensation  for  its  strife, 

Its  flesh-thorns  and  vexations. 

Oh  !  who  spurs  fast  to  join  our  feast  ? 
A  fair  and  three  times  welcome  guest 
In  plumed  hat  and  habit  dressed,  — 
No  city  belle  completer  ; 


4-8  Letters  from  Colorado. 

She  rides  her  mustang  with  the  grace 
Of  Dian,  in  the  sacred  chase  ; 
My  host,  catching  her  half-hid  face, 
Murmurs  "  La  Signorita." 

My  hunger  flees,  for  at  a  glance 

A  poet  catches  a  romance 

And  would  not  miss  the  slightest  chance 

To  win  immortal  honor. 
Our  suave  and  gracious  cavalier, 
With  bare  head  slightly  bent  to  hear, 
Does  by  attentive  glance  appear 

To  wait  upon  her. 

They  speak  the  sweet  Castilian  tongue  — 
Liquids  of  pearl  on  amber  strung  ; 
As  if  a  passionate  utterance  sprung 

To  lips  that  speak  ; 
And  all  Spain's  vanished  glory  glows 
In  almond  eye,  and  damask  rose, 
That  with  the  purple  current  flows 

Thro'  rounded  cheek. 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye, 

Yet  thro'  no  movement  could  you  spy 

If  other  than  the  one  was  by 

Who  listened  to  her ; 
Her  calm  position  statuesque, 
Her  graceful  drapery  picturesque 
Her  tout  ensemble  arabesque  — 

No  etching  truer. 


A  Poet 's  Romance.  49 

Presto  /  the  scene  has  changed  :  our  cavalier 
With  call  to  supper  asks  this  queen  to  share, 
And,  not  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy 
She  has  consented  smiling  charmingly. 
A  burro-saddle  is  her  royal  seat, 
A  blanket  footstool  for  her  dainty  feet,  — 
With  small  lace  kerchief  spread  upon  her  knee, 
She  holds  tin  cup  and  court  with  equal  ease. 
Her  broken  English  is  a  chime  of  bells, 
Her  silvery  laughter  in  low  ripples  swells, 
And  every  miner  at  our  humble  board 
Comforts  himself  as  knight  and  noble  lord. 

Protecting  tho'  the  manner  of  my  host, 

I  marvel  at  her  confidence  the  most. 

"  She  seems,"  I  said,  "  to  have  no  thought  of  fear," — 

"  Nor  has  she  cause,"  he  answered;  "  I  am  here." 

His  hand,  as  half  unconscious,  touched  his  belt, 

Wholly  conclusive  argument  I  felt. 

Poets  have  earned  the  right  to  moralize 
On  human  hopes,  and  human  fallacies, 
But  I  am  so  convulsed  with  secret  laughter 
I'll  tell  my  tale,  and  think  a  moral  after. 

For  my  romance  fell  with  a  mighty  crash, 
As  fairest  structures  will,  a  total  smash  ; 
The  father  Don,  and  his  surviving  daughter 
Are  camped  below  us  on  the  stream  of  water 
The  early  settlers  christened  "Bellows  Creek 
(Not  from  its  aptness,  nor  euphonious  Greek) . 


5O  Letters  from  Colorado. 

The  hapless  Don,  seeing  our  cavalcade, 
"  La  Signorita  "  sent  to  seek  our  aid  — 
Their  bronco  horses,  absent  on  French  leave 
Have  left  the  striken  camp  to  rave  and  grieve, 
Her  nag  the  only  creature  left  to  ride  ; 
And  he,  inflated  with  true  bronco  pride, 
Will  not  permit  another  soul  to  mount  — 
And  thus  I  have  my  story  to  recount. 

A  camping  party  never  ties  its  horses  — 

Freedom  recuperates  the  wasted  forces, 

And  'tis  no  trifle  to  reclaim  a  brute 

Who  travails  all  creation  to  recruit ; 

For  he  most  shrewdly  takes  his  cue  from  man, 

With  freedom  given  pilfers  all  he  can, 

Recklessly  kicking  at  a  coaxing  rein 

That  aims  to  win  to  duteous  paths  again  — 

The  burro  adding  his  sonorous  screech 

In  vindication  of  abuse  of  speech  — 

A  trick  some  humans  have,  perchance  the  shoot 

Left  lurking  from  a  kindred  parent-root ; 

Men  are  of  different  gifts  as  well  as  shapes, 

Why  not  from  asses  sprung,  as  well  as  apes  ? 

Man's  not  the  only  creature  to  abuse 
The  gifts  the  gods  have  given  him  to  use, 
But  he  alone,  alas !  can  rhapsodize, 
On  liberty  extolling  to  the  skies, 
Yet  in  his  rhapsody  forgets  to  paint, 
The  highest  liberty  as  self  restraint. 


A  Poet 's  Romance.  5 1 


WHO    COMES    TO    COLORADO? 

Who  comes  to  Colorado 

To  spy  a  naked  land, 
Should  stay  his  steps  in  summer 

Beside  the  Rio  Grande ; 
Altho'  no  brook  of  Eschol, 

Most  lovely  to  be  seen, 
Its  silver  waves  caressing 

A  thousand  isles  of  green  — 

Isles,  breathing  still  of  Eden, 

For  there  the  sweet  wild-rose 
Scatters  her  dainty  perfume 

To  every  wind  that  blows ; 
Far-stretching  to  th'  horizon 

Are  massive  peaks  on  guard, 
Lest  the  encroaching  river 

Usurp  their  barren  sward. 

A  soft  ascent  of  meadow, 

Foothills  of  tender  brown, 
Whose  sunflecked  pines  and  aspen 

Temper  the  range's  frown  ; 
Their  beetling  brows  as  arid 

As  the  Sahara  waste, 
Rivaled  by  crowns  of  verdure, 

Or  snow  as  Dian  chaste, 


$2  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Rest,  an  embodied  spirit, 

Marshals  the  columned  clouds 
That  serried  crests  envelope 

In  spotless,  fleece-white  shrouds, 
Their  shapes  serenely  rolling 

Against  a  sky  so  blue, 
'The  peace  past  understanding' 

Seems  just  beyond  the  view. 

It  shadows  all  the  landscape, 

Touches  the  rugged  pine, 
Till  rock  and  jagged  boulders 

In  novel  beauty  shine, 
With  the  great  rolling  river 

Onrushing  at  his  feet, 
The  naked  land  fades  surely 

Into  a  charmed  retreat ; 

And  when  a  gorgeous  sunset 

Stencils  the  river's  banks, 
Where  the  great  San  Juan  ranges 

Part  their  defiant  ranks, 
His  eyes  may  feast  on  beauty, 

Watching  distracted  rays, 
Astray  in  boundless  ether 

And  dizzy  with  amaze  ; 

Behold  familiar  colors 

Transform  before  his  eyes, 

Till  words  are  faint  to  picture 
Their  ever-changing  dyes  — 


A  Poefs  Romance.  53 

Till  orange,  green  and  purple 

Merge  into  jasper  brown, 
And  the  lost  waifs  of  amber 

Brighten  the  evening's  crown. 

Who  leaves  a  world  behind  him 

To  seek  a  restful  land, 
Will  find  a  poet's  haven 

Beside  the  Rio  Grande ; 
His  heart  will  throb  exultant, 

All  carking  care  repressed, 
When  he  can  hear  the  river 

Chanting  a  hymn  of  rest. 


LETTER  XI. 


LEGEND    OF   THE   DEVILS   GATE. 

I  HALF  suspect  a  feeling  more  than  kind 
Lurks  treacherous  in  our  handsome  Tenor's  mind 
"La  Signorita  "  -ward.     Some  lover's  freak 
Commands  that  all  the  truant  broncos  seek  ; 
And  acts,  whose  motives  show  no  other  cause, 
Are  easy  to  adjudge  by  Cupid's  laws. 

Tis  Sabbath  morning  and  your  church  bells  ring 
Clear  to  the  Rockies,  faintly  whispering 
Thro'  memory's  chords  some  feelings  of  regret. 
The  hunting  party  is  not  gathered  yet, 
And  my  good  host,  too  restless  far  to  wait, 
Suggests  we  wander  to  the  Devil's  Gate  ; 
I,  hardly  knowing  if  it  leads  beyond, 
Follow  in  simple  faith,  as  crude  as  fond. 

This  Willow  Creek  in  which  is  pitched  our  tent 
Comes  thro'  the  Gate,  by  mountain  torrents  sent 
Down  to  the  Rio  Grande.    'Tis  a  vent 
Of  narrow  boundaries,  but  impetuous  force 
When  winter's  melting  treasures  swell  its  course. 


Legend  of  the  Devil's   Gate.  55 

Towards  the  gorge  on  either  hand  uprise, 
Crested  with  pine,  hills  clad  in  sober  guise, 
Nor  yet  so  near  but  an  expanse  is  seen, 
Of  sky  and  shapely  terraces  between, 
While  to  the  left,  bordering  upon  the  plain, 
The  work  of  fire  or  flood  appears  again. 

Piled  in  fantastic  heaps  one's  fancy  drapes 
The  jagged  rocks  with  all  imagined  shapes : 
An  Abbey  turret  with  its  belfry  spire 
Is  clearly  seen,  perhaps  a  funeral  pyre 
Was  kindled  there  for  holy  monk  and  friar ; 
A  knightly  figure,  half-hid  by  a  shield, 
With  sword  and  helmet  ready  for  the  field. 

The  force  which  flung  these  relics  to  the  left, 
From  crown  to  foot  a  wall  of  porphry  cleft, 
Leaving  two  columns  of  unequal  height, 
Clean-fronted,  living  trophies  of  its  might, 
And  almost  could  a  clasp  unite  again, 
So  small  an  interval  divides  the  twain. 
On  either  side  the  Devil's  Gate  they  loom, 
Seeming  to  guard  the  very  keys  of  doom. 

Somber  and  grey  are  the  enchanted  halls 

Enclosed  by  nature's  uncemented  walls. 

Barely  in  other  canon  is  surpassed 

This  rugged  grandeur.     Guarding  portal  passed, 

The  awe  of  mystery  about  us  cast, 

We  enter  sacred  ground,  where  vaulted  roof 

Recedes  in  sentient  majesty  aloof 


56  Letters  from  Colorado. 

From  earthly  contact.     Shrub-clad,  tier  on  tier 

Of  rocky  terraces  like  steps  appear 

Enticing  up;  —  but  deer  or  antelope 

Could  scarce  keep  footing  on  their  treacherous  slope, 

The  gorge,  in  depth  perhaps  three  thousand  feet, 
Breaks  at  one  side  where  rival   torrents  meet. 
These  have  hewn  out  a  path  from  snows  remote 
To  join  the  river ;  with  triumphant  note 
Over  their  rocky  harriers  they  gloat. 
Here  is  the  name  of  Devil's  Gate  most  apt 
Ledge  upon  ledge  of  shapeless  granite  capped 
By  ledge  on  ledge  of  more.     No  horse  can  climb 
The  savage  steep,  defiant  but  sublime  ; 
And  man  were  mad  to  dare  so  rash  a  deed, 
For,  where  beyond,  the  Devil's  Gate  may  lead 
No  mortal  knows,  they  say,  and  none  can  see  — 
It  seems  to  vanish  in  eternity. 

"  Te  Deum  Laudamus  !  "     The  silver-keyed  voice 
Rolled  up  thro'  the  canon  an  anthem  of  praise, 
The  song  of  a  soul  over-burdened  with  joys, 
A  child  giving  thanks  to  the  author  of  days. 
Oh  !  fill  your  cathedral  arches  with  hymns, 
Trill  symphonies  learned  with  a  well-tutored  tongue  ! 
But  the  notes  that  upswell  when  the  heart  overbrims 
Is  the  grandest  "  Laudamus  "  that  ever  was  sung. 

An  eagle,  poising  on  a  shelving  rock, 
Seems  like  a  cynic  critic  come  to  mock. 


Legend  of  the  Devil's  Gate.  57 

With  ceasing  anthem,  up  aloft  he  springs, 
A  small  tornado  in  his  whirring  wings. 
He  swoops  anear  -,  a  shriek  of  mortal  pain 
Follows  his  wake  as  he  upsoars  again 
With  prey  held  fast  in  talons  keen  to  hold. 
His  savage  eyes  are  fearsome  to  behold  — 
A  shot  well  aimed,  and  at  our  feet  he  lies, 
Defiance  but  no  pleading  in  his  eyes, 
For,  king  in  life,  king  to  the  last,  he  dies. 

LEGEND. 

Our  Tenor,  toying  with  the  great  dead  bird 
Spake  musingly :  "  A  marvelous  tale  I  heard 
About  this  canon  from  the  old  Ute  chief  — 
A  marvelous  tale  not  easy  of  belief, 
Tho'  none  so  potent  of  the  gifts  of  Jove, 
For  good  or  evil,  as  a  woman's  love. 

"  Prince  Creto,  scion  of  a  Northern  race, 
To  Arthur's  virtues  adding  Launcelot's  grace, 
When  summer  spread  her  blazonry  of  flowers, 
Brought  here  his  bride  to  pass  new-wedded  hours 
Strange,  in  a  frame  already  bent  and  old, 
Was  the  chief's  ardor,  as  he  glibly  told 
Over  her  beauties  :  eloquent  his  tongue, 
And  every  word  in  portraiture  was  strong. 
The  good  prince  won  eulogiums,  if  more  mild, 
Still  fond  as  father  doting  gives  his  child, 
Quick  to  reward  or  praise  he  was,  and  brave, 
Courteous  to  noble,  gracious  to  the  slave, 


58  Letters  from  Colorado. 

And  in  his  royal  carnage  to  his  bride 
A  very  god  of  love  personified. 


But  Tezcalla  aweary  soon  became 

Of  love  so  loyal  as  Prince  Crete's  flame ; 
Potiphar's  wife  yields  us  a  prototype 

In  every  clime,  and  Helen's  world-wide  name 
Hangs  up  by  Cleopatra's,  barely  ripe. 

Beside  some  moderns,  emulous  of  fame, 
This  northern  queen  only  a  glorious  brute ; 

Decoyed  as  sweetly  as  her  whiter  kin, 
Offered  the  ashes  of  a  Dead  sea  fruit, 

And  called  the  glamour  love,  which  gilt  the  sin, 

Her  noble  liege,  if  seeing,  made  no  sign 
Save  that  a  mocking  devil  lit  his  eyes ; 
In  generous  nature  faith  most  hardly  dies  — 

Yet  brought  he  to  quick  shape  a  dear  design. 

A  bridge  of  stone,  '  tis  said,  this  canon  spanned 
In  that  far  time  —  six  men  could  walk  abreast 

Across  the  arch ;  and  here  the  monarch  planned 
To  build  an  eyrie  for  secluded  rest, 

Where  like  an  eagle  he  could  look  aloft 
Above  the  world,  defy  the  whims  of  fate, 
Rear  his  young  brood  beside  his  royal  mate, 

Nor  know  if  men  approved,  or  rudely  hcoflecl, 


TJie  Legend  of  the  DeviVs  Gate.  59 

Then  all  his  busy  slaves  their  knowledge  plied  ; 

The  canon  echoed  to  the  tramp  of  feet ; 

There  came  Tezcalla,  undulating  sweet, 
Her  paramour  full  often  at  her  side. 

Prince  Creto  gracious,  asked  their  wisdom  here 
Should  this  be  thus  ?  or  so  ?  or  even  so  ? 
Like  coals  the  devil  in  his  eyes  would  glow, 

Yet  felt  they  no  forboding  thrill  of  fear. 

Finished  the  palace,  bravely  garnitured 
With  every  dainty  to  be  bought  of  gold  ; 
And  in  a  spot  so  lovely  to  behold 

Seemed  not  already  perfect  bliss  assured  ? 

A  lover's  paradise,  with  tempered  light  — 
One  tiny  window  hewn  thro'  solid  stone. 

Prince  Creto  made  the  end  a  gala  night, 
Bade  queen  and  lover  sup  with  him  alone. 

Flowers  weighed  the  air  with  langorous  perfume, 
Rich  and  rare  viands  graced  the  princely  feast, 
Seductive  music  sensuous  swelled  and  ceased 

As  the  charmed  guests  surveyed  the  banquet-room. 

Prince  Creto  bade  them  eat.  "  Each  dish,"  he  said, 
"  Was  subtly  poisoned,  and  all  rare  device 

Had  decked  the  food  whereby  they  must  be  fed 
Unless  for  daily  wants  love  should  suffice."  — 


60  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Then  left  he  with  a  smile  of  courteous  grace 
A  great  stone  door  rolled  up  to  close  them  in. 

Below,   the  slaves  were  marshalled  into  place 
And  outward  marched  to  songs  and  martial  din, 

Joyously  rose  the  strains ;  far  echoes  woke 
To  answering  glee  ;  speeding  the  mirth  along, 
These  giant  pillars  caught  the  life  of  song 

And  into  raptures  broke. 

Night  in  celestial  robes  of  blue  and  gold 

Above  the  host  a  cloudless  arch  spread  over ; 
Into  the  sanctity  of  loved  and  lover 

A  flood  of  music  rolled. 

But  music  there  in  dainty  cunning  failed  — 
Was  it  the  tiny  window  was  so  small 
That  as  the  swelling  circles  reached  the  wall 

Echo  but  shrieked  and  wailed  ? 

The  solitude  masked  those  sounds  retained, 
Varying  the  shrillest  cry  with  savage  shout, 
Tenacious  to  the  rocks  they  twined  about 

And  ceaselessly  complained. 

While  early  autumn  winds  played  soft  and  cool 
Among  the  garlands  in  September's  hair; 

When  morn  her  toilet  made  in  sleepy  pool,  — 
Those  notes  crept  even  there. 

When  purple  mists  against  the  foothills  hung 
And  breeding  peace  with  tender  noon-day  fell 
On  the  deserted  valley  like  a  knell  — 

Out  clear  that  echo  rung. 


Legend  of  the  Devil's  Gate.  61 

'Tis  said  the  zenith  of  September's  reign 

Brings  back  those  awful  sounds, 
And  as  upon  that  night,  the  gorge  again 

With  agony  resounds. 

The  gentle  Prince  incarnate  fiend  became, 
A  terror  to  his  followers  as  his  foes  ; 

A  scourge  upon  the  land,  a  brand  of  shame  — • 
As  plant  unduly  urged  to  garbage  grows. 

A  century  after,  one  unwalled  the  door, 

A  sight  beheld  that  well  nigh  had  unmanned 

The  lover  prone  upon  the  dust  clad  floor, 
Tezcalla,  poniard  raised  in  fleshless  hand. 


LETTER    XII. 

LEGEND  OF  SUNNYSIDE. 

As  we  emerged  beyond  the  pale  immortal, 

Our  Tenor  left  me  at  the  outer  portal. 

I  found  the  camp  deserted.     Solitude 

To-day  a  little  jarred  upon  my  mood ; 

And  so  it  fell,  the  plain  which  westward  lies 

Assumed  enticing  outlines  in  my  eyes  — 

A  mountain  torrent  changes  every  scene. 

I  've  learned  the  sign:  a  strip  of  willow  green  ; 

Nor  fails  it  here,  for  there  a  fisher  stands, 

Air  all  absorbed,  rod  clenched  in  steady  hands, 

I  read  suspicion  rousing  in  his  glance. 

lie  takes  my  measure  with  a  leer  askance 

And  by  some  subtle  instinct  instant  sees 

"  I  am  a  Tenderfoot,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Contempt  is  the  first  feeling  in  his  mind, 
The  next,  a  careless  thought  a  shade  more  kind, 
At  which,  if  self-esteem  takes  no  offence 
One's  chance  to  gain  his  good  will  is  immense. 


Legend  of  Sunny  side.  63 

I  swallow  mine,  and  step  to  royal  favor, 
As  witness,  all  his  subsequent  behavior. 

He  bade  me  share  his  dinner,  trout  and  deer, 
Food  fit  for  gods,  if  lacking  other  cheer ; 
But  he  could  talk,  not  like  our  Tenor  truly  — 
Words  not  so  classic,  grammar  more  unruly  ; 
Miner  he  was,  his  camp  at  Sunnysicle  — 
The  world  for  him  held  little  else  beside. 
Once  in  his  cabin,  all  the  gracious  ease. 
Which  gratifies  by  a  desire  to  please 
Charmed,  as  no  luxuries  without  it  can, 
The  welcome  of  a  hospitable  man. 
Our  meal  he  cooked  himself,  and  while  we  dined, 
My  eager  questioning  called  this  tale  to  mind  :  — 

LEGEND. 

A  few  log  cabins  nestling  in  the  bushes, 

A  narrow  valley  laughing  in  the  sun  ; 
A  mountain  stream,  that  ever  widening  rushes 

To  swell  the  river  and  its  life  is  done. 

Now  Miner's  Creek,  but  when  Chulo  was  reigning, 
His  language  called  it  "  Gold-gleam  from  the  West." 

T'was  broader,  rougher,  flowed  as  now  complaining 
To  the  grey  Rio  Grande,  seeking  rest ; 

And  legends  say,  to  dark-skinned  Aztec  daughters 
Testing  the  charm  of  tempted  Marguerite  : 

"He  loves,  he  loves  me  not"  —  the  sun-flecked  waters 
Failed  never  to  return  an  answer  sweet. 


64  Letters  from  Colorado. 

There  buried  in  a  waste  of  rude  foundations 
Are  Aztic  relics  crudely  carved  in  stone  ; 

Cemented  walls  of  ruined  habitations, 
Tokens  of  luxury  in  ages  gone. 

And  history  says,  a  people  glad  of  spirit, 
Blest  of  the  gods,  dwelt  happy  in  this  vale  ; 

Haunts  that  the  beaver  and  the  fox  inherit 
Once  rang  in  triumph  to  a  marvelous  tale. 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  tho'  he  came  from  the  West ; 

May  doff  his  gay  bonnet  and  lower  his  crest ; 

For  proud  tho'  the  plumes  which  his  valor  may  wave, 
As  brilliant  the  glory  of  Chulo  the  Brave  ! 

The  swiftest  of  foot,  and  the  lightest  of  hand, 
His  war  trophies  counted  by  scores  in  the  land ! 
His  spears  were  bedecked  by  the  pride  of  the  fair 
And  no  passage  of  arms  but  his  courage  would  dare. 

An  army  victorious  returning  in  pride 
Bore  chained  with  its  victims,  his  terrified  bride, 
And  barbed  the  arrow  fear  plunged  in  his  breast 
To  fetter  his  actions  and  torture  his  rest. 

She  saw  him  look  on  with  a  stupified  stare, 
Nor  knew  in  that  gaze  couched  the  strength  of  despair; 
No  offer  could  ransom,  no  prowess  could  save, 
If  failed  her  the  strong  arm  of  Chulo  the  Brave. 

The  holiday  crowd  in  their  gala  attire 

Stood  waiting  the  touch  of  the  torch  to  the  fire, 


Legend  of  Sunny  side.  65 

The  choristers  chanted  the  hymnal  of  life, 
The  priest  at  the  altar  had  whetted  the  knife  — 

When  swift  as  the  lightning  outdarts  from  the  sky 
And  blinds  by  its  swiftness,  with  leap  and  a  cry, 
Undaunted  hung  Valor  the  shambles  above, 
And  bore  off  the  doomed  on  the  pinions  of  Love ; 

The  swiftest  of  foot,  like  a  hind  from  the  dart, 
Scoured  over  the  plains  with  his  bride  on  his  heart ; 
And  fierce  tho'  the  shout  of  the  blood-waiting  throng, 
His  triumph  is  lauded  in  story  and  song, 

He  fled  to  this  valley  and  founded  a  race 

Of  giants  in  stature,  Apollos  in  face, 

As  gentle  of  spirit  as  stalwart  and  bold  — 
A  nation  of  Nimrods  and  delvers  for  gold. 

Their  gods  were  the  patrons  of  sunshine  and  showers, 
Their  incense  the  increase  of  fruit  and  of  flowers. 
As  never  a  life  on  their  altar  was  spent, 
Tis  marked  as  the  epoch  of  Peace  and  Content. 

Thus  subtly  the  meshes  which  Cupid  inwove 
Taught  even  a  savage  the  beauty  of  love, 

And  placed  on  the  records  of  Love  and  of  War 
This  Chulo  the  Brave  by  our  own  Lochinvar. 


LETTER    XIII. 

STRANGE   THEMES. 

CAMP  breaks  this  morning,  come  the  jacks 
To  their  old  fare,  abuse  and  thwacks, 
With  sober  faces,  comic  leer 
Too  innocent  to  be  sincere, 
Eager  for  mischief,  miss  no  chance 
To  give  some  luckless  wight  a  dance, 
Stealing  his  socks,  his  towels,  his  soap, 
His  shirt,  his  shoes,  his  packing  rope 
No  earthly  trifle  comes  amiss  — 
All  he  can  reach  a  dainty  is, 
While  curses  rattle  quick  and  loud 
Like  hail-stones  thro'  the  thieving  crowd. 

We  ford  the  river  to  the  public  road, 
My  host  and  I.     The  burros  with  their  load 
Follow  the  trail,  a  narrow  mountain  pass 
O'erhanging  many  a  gorge  and  deep  crevasse  ; 
Deep  Creek,  in  mass  of  swaying  willows  buried, 
By  its  commotion  seems  intensely  hurried, 


Strange  Themes.  67 

Like  local  politician,  pompous,  loud, 
Compelling  notice  from  the  passing  crowd. 
Where  the  main  road  circles  —  a  narrow  curve 
By  its  impetuous  fury  forced  to  swerve  — 
A  rustic  habitation  lately  stood. 
A  great  stone  chimney,  yawning  mouthed  and  rude, 
With  signs  of  life  strewing  the  arid  plain, 
And  some  charred  embers,  now  alone  remain. 

The  curve  at  Deep  Creek  passed,  we  reach  a  height 
Where  an  enchanting  valley  meets  our  sight, 
And  by  the  curling  line  of  blue  grey  smoke 
I  know  'twas  there  our  scattered  camp  awoke 
Tho'  everywhere  do  gleams  of  beauty  float, 
Our  Tenor  never  yet  has  hummed  a  note. 
I  wonder,  but  respect  the  silent  mood, 
Knowing  'tis  thus  the  muses  should  be  wooed. 

Abruptly  to  the  left  a  tiny  square 

Of  rough  hewn  poles,  arranged  with  rigid  care, 

Tell  to  the  passer  by  a  grave  is  there. 

Said  I,  "  He  is  unhappy  who  thus  sleeps 

In  solitude  where  never  any  weeps." 

"  Blessed  they  are,"  our  Tenor  quick  replied ; 
"  Babes  of  that  home  who  both  one  midnight  died, 
Where  with  the  followers  of  the  rude  storm  king 
Entered  Death's  messenger  on  noiseless  wing. 

"  I  missed  my  playmates,  they  were  wont  to  greet 
My  coming  with  delight,  half  shy,  all  sweet, 


68  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Not  long  my  absence  ;  but  the  awful  lull 
That  welcomed  my  return  was  pitiful. 
But,  now,  I  seem  to  see  the  white-robed  pair, 
Hand  clasped  in  hand,  haunting  the  very  air, 
A  breathless  calm  circles  the  ravine  round 
As  we  were  trespassing  on  holy  ground." 

"  Has  death  no  terrors  ?  "    "  Nay,  when  such  he  weaves 

Among  the  golden  ripeness  of  his  sheaves, 

He  but  a  messenger  of  peace  can  prove, 

Offering  the  best  gift  in  our  Father's  love. 

What  is  death  but  a  moment  of  eclipse 

To  rest  our  eyes  before  the  dazzling  beams 

Of  perfect  day  across  our  vision  streams  ; 

To  weary  hearts  fainting  with  weight  of  wrong 

The  last  inn  on  a  road  too  rough  and  long. 

"  Who  would  live  alway  ?     With  the  pulse  of  youth 
Beats  faith  in  God,  and  trust  in  manhood's  truth. 
Life  then  is  good,  death  but  a  goal  far  off, 
Neither  a  theme  for  terror  nor  for  scoff, 
Simply  fulfillment  of  establishing  laws, — 
Until  some  priest-lore  in  his  faith  point  flaws ; 
Priests  hold  death  as  a  scourge  above  their  slaves, 
Cross-bones  and  skulls,  the  charnel  house  and  graves, 
With  the  great  judgment  and  a  judge's  curse 
Symbolled  in  funeral  pomp  and  somber  hearse 
Till  we  take  symbols  for  the  symbolized  — 
And  fear  a  boon  the  wiser  ancients  prized. 


Strange   TJiemes.  69 

"  What  can  we  give  to  our  beloved  ?  No  joy 
So  all  unmixed  but  on  the  taste  will  cloy, 
No  gift  without  a  canker  at  its  heart, 
No  precious  thing  but  can  conceal  a  smart, 
And  death  is  God's  last  boon,  divinest,  best 
Giving  earth's  weary  children  perfect  rest." 

I  asked  his  creed.  "  The  question  presses  close. 
My  duty  is  to  lighten  human  woes, 
To  smooth  the  pathway  for  the  frail  and  weak, 
To  help  my  brother  open  his  pay-streak, 
Give  him  a  '  grub  stake '  if  the  case  require, 
And  keep  the  widow  in  a  cheerful  fire. 

"In  sober  truth,  the  gist  of  modern  creeds 
Is  like  a  wilderness  of  swaying  reeds, 
Thro*  which  it  takes  a  keener  eye  than  mine 
To  find  the  one  trail  to  the  Will  Divine. 
Form  seems  to  rule,  the  Father  of  us  all 
Is  wholly  hid  by  gilded  ritual, 
Sinners  are  cloaked  and  hypocrites  are  rife, 
'Tis  insufficient  for  our  Western  life. 

"  You  smile ;  but  Western  life  is  earnest,  real 
We  need  a  creed  we  can  apply  and  feel, 
We  want  our  souls  untrammeled  as  our  feet, 
To  pray  or  sorrow  at  the  mercy-seat. 
In  inquisitions  no  device  of  pain 
Concealed  a  torture  like  the  viewless  chain 


70  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Which  early  faith  binds  to  a  victim's  heart. 
I'  ve  seen  its  power  at  work  with  cunning  art, 
And  speak  whereof  I  know.     Our  rugged  life 
Is  a  continuous  war,  a  savage  strife 
To  grasp  requirements  for  our  daily  needs. 
We  find  sparse  time  to  jangle  over  creeds, 
And  blest  is  he  to  whom  one  God  remains, 
Who  from  his  soul  can  say  Jehovah  reigns, 
When  he  has  wrenched  away  those  early  chains. 


"A  man's  coarse  nature  hardens  into  flint 
With  the  corroding  care  and  anxious  stint 
Of  urging  pennies  to  a  sovereign's  duty  — 
It  takes  all  polish  off  his  sense  of  beauty ; 
And  when  a  woman,  dainty  born  and  bred, 
High  dreams  of  self-denial  in  her  head, 
A  martyrdom  for  love  before  her  spread, 
Leading  her  husband  bravely  by  the  hand, 
Comes  tripping  to  this  grand  but  churchless  land, 
The  boundless  range  of  all  our  winter  snows 
Cannot  outlook  the  prospect  of  her  woes. 
So  surely  as  spring  suns  those  snows  will  clear 
Her  trust  in  priest  and  creed  will  disappear. 


"  Even  at  the  best  this  doleful  state  obtains. 

Bonanzas  must  be  worked,  tho'  rich  and  rare. 
Labor  is  king,  and  misery  despot  reigns  — 

No  charming  outlook  for  a  well-matched  pair. 


Strange  Themes. 

What  but  blank  wretchedness  for  couples  curst 
By  being  tied  together  at  the  first. 
These  rush  upon  a  fate  too  surely  theirs 
Without  an  unknown  quantum  in  affairs. 
Man  bolstered  by  society's  strong  props, 
Finds  his  true  status  when  the  scaffold  drops. 
In  a  new  country  he  must  stand  alone, 
From  native  grit  rebuild  even  structural  bone ; 
Nor  is  it  long  before  the  problem's  solved 
If  grit  be  there.     It  never  is  evolved. 

"  Woman  not  brave  ?     You  surely  do  but  jest. 
All  we  revere  as  courage  fits  her  best : 
Patience,  endurance,  hope  that  looks  aloft 
Above  the  lees  she  has  persistent  quaffed, 
Dependent,  timid,  shrinking  in  a  crowd  — 
Here  in  the  open  shows  a  soul  embowed, 
Throws  off  inertia,  and  with  half  a  mate 
Wrenches  success  from  the  most  adverse  fate. 

"  She  starts  in  for  a  *  patent ' ;  means  to  win  ; 
All  her  high  strung  physique  fierce  to  begin. 
He  often  faints,  discouraged  at  his  stake  ; 
The  ills  to  be  surmounted  make  him  quake  ; 
And  oftener  yet  alas  !  he  sits  and  thinks, 
Pities  himself,  curses  his  luck,  and  drinks. 

"  Shame  goads  him  on,  downward  and  down  he  goes 
Swifter  than  avalanche  of  loosened  snows, 


7-  Letters  from    Colorado. 

Then  she  the  brave,  fronting  the  line  of  war, 

Gay  colors  on  her  battle  axe  and  car, 

Defends  the  opening  breach  in  her  breast-works, 

Ignores  the  traitor  who  more  surely  irks ; 

Accepts  her  fate  as  one  divinely  given 

Even  as  her  creed  dictates,  red  hot ;  from  heaven. 

"  Woman  not  brave !   Myself  have  seen  her  smile, 
Belied  by  the  great  hunted  eyes  the  while, 
Till  my  soul  shrank  abashed,  dismayed  and  cowed 
Before  the  spirit  in  its  martyr  shroud. 

"  What  jargon  that  of  a  primeval  curse  ! 
The  odious  selfishness  of  man  is  worse. 
The  crawling  worm  will  turn  in  self  defense, 
Yet  woman  holds  no  right  to  take  offence, 

"  Or  her  imperial  lord ;  and  we,  his  peers, 
Will  bring  refined  tortures,  slurs  and  jeers, 
The  gibe  of  ignorance,  the  smile  of  scorn, 
To  make  her  loathe  the  hour  that  she  was  born. 
For  these  are  barbed  beyond  the  cross  and  stake, 
To  make  the  gentle  heart  of  woman  quake. 
Submission  is  her  pass  to  life  eternal, 
As  is  rebellion  to  the  realms  infernal  — 
One  tenet  dear  to  every  Adam's  son, 
And  by  his  ghostly  counsellors  passed  on. 

"Our  nineteenth  century  culture  talks;  but  facts, 
Stubborn  as  fate  itself,  show  how  it  acts : 
Our  slaves  are  freed ;  dumb  brutes  upon  the  street 
Allowed  to  seek  redress  from  all  they  meet ; 


Strange   Themes.  73 

Orphans  and  waifs  by  liberal  hands  are  fed; 

Our  wearied  soiled  cloves  housed  and  comforted  ; 

Our  murderers  feted,  while  the  prison  cells 

Of  ghastly  crimes  are  decked  with  asphodels. 

But  a  good  woman,  neck- yoked  to  a  beast, 

Must  thankful  be,  or  silent  at  the  least. 

The  world  is  breaking  from  its  swaddling  bands. 

Priests  grasp  no  longer  all  with  impious  hands. 

Who  would  be  first  must  stoop  for  his  estate 

Of  Christian  teacher,  till  men  crown  him  great  — 

Greatest  when  his  humanity  keeps  pace 

With  godlike  pity  and  redeeming  grace. 

Yet  the  old  superstition  firmly  holds 

That  woman  is  the  black  sheep  in  the  folds. 

"  Men  have  been  monarchs  of  the  world  so  long 
There  seems  but  small  redress  for  such  a  wrong. 
A  scrap  of  sympathy  perhaps  they  fling, 
But  dare  not  pause  to  draw  the  barbed  sting. 
Not  wholly  Levites,  yet  they  fear  to  look 
On  hearts  that  custom  makes  a  sealed  book; 
Shrink  back  from  offering  that  by  all  denied, 
To  pass  self-righteous  on  the  other  side. 

"  Suffrage !  Oh  faugh  !     That  matter  is  too  small ; 
It  hardly  touches  on  the  point  at  all. 
The  cause  lies  deeper  :  in  the  faith  we  're  taught 
That  man  as  lord  embodies  human  thought, 
Gives  him  the  right  to  flee  when  evils  press, 
Because  by  priestly  shackles  fettered  less, 


74  Letters  from  Colorado. 

While  she  is  banned  by  every  modern  creed ; 
Therefore  is  none  to  fill  our  Western  need. 

"  For  woman  here  the  master-spirit  is. 

Man  warms  her  heart  because  she  kindles  his  — 

Flesh  of  his  flesh,  true  helpmeet  patient,  fond. 

Having  to-day,  she  will  not  look  beyond. 

With  passions  like  to  his,  how  can  she  cling 

In  adoration  to  a  bestial  thing  — 

Besotted,  driveling,  he  who  once  has  been 

Her  type  of  manhood.     Where  disgrace  so  keen  ! 

Then  if  her  children  hunger,  God  have  pity  — 

Reels  to  foundation  the  beleagured  city. 

"  Woe  to  the  craven  who  has  robbed  her  brood ! 

Woe  to  his  shackles  when  they  cry  for  food  ! 

A  lioness  in  fury,  faith  nor  creed 

Withstands  the  home-thrusts  of  their  clamoring  need. 

"  What  other  love  with  mother-love  compares, 
The  height  and  depth  of  sacrifice  so  dares? 
That   wondrous  link  between  herself  and  child, 
Even  before  his  face  on  earth  has  smiled, 
Transcends  our  wisdom  ;  for  'to  her  his  eyes  ' 
Ever  *  look  up   in  joy  and  not  surprise.' 
Of  her  he  craves  his  daily  mite  of  food 
And  later  every  gift  of  higher  good. 
The  grave  may  take  his  form,  but  never  touch 
Save  hers  must  feed  or  smooth  his  nightly  couch, 
What  fate  betide,    she  cries  before  high  heaven, 
'  Here  am  I,  Lord,  and  those  whom  Thou  hast  given/ 


Strange   Tliemes.  75 

'Where  is  it  mothers  learn  their  love  ?  We  know 
That  highest  souls  its  highest  type  do  show  - 
That  these  will  most  endure,  and  fiercest  spurn 
At  every  fetter  when  resolved  to  turn. 
We  should  be  merciful  when  such  do  strive 
In  desperate  strength  to  keep  their  babes  alive. 

"Cases  some  score  I  know,  and  call  to  mind 

This  moment  one,  as  dainty  and  refined 

As  cities  breed,  to  aptly  illustrate 

How  barbarous  even  now  is  woman's  fate. 

The  country  new,  temptations  hemmed  her  round, 

She  held  her  own  saint  guarding  hallowed  ground  ; 

Still  clung  to  one  who,  with  a  silly  smile, 

Watched  every  snare,  scarce  conscious  of  its  guile — 

Her  church,  her  priest,  her  creed,  with  one  acclaim 

Chained  her  to  him  who  honored  with  his  name. 

"  Sudden  and  swift  the  avenging  spirit   woke, 
Thro'  shackles  welded  by  a  life-time  broke, 
Flew  in  the  face  of  slurs,  of  taunts  and  jeers, 
With  which  cold  malice  settles  all  arrears ; 
Clutched  at  the  helping-hand  out  stretched  to  save, 
Buried  her  past  in  its  unhallowed  grave, 
Defied  the  tongues  of  slander, — could  she  less  ?  - 
And  in  her  own  strength  wrought  her  own  redress. 

" '  The  laws  of  state  ? '    Aye,  true,  they  set  her  free, 
But  Church  laws  bind  her  still  in  slavery. 
Until  the  Judgment  she  must  bear  the  shame 


76  Letters  from  Colorado. 

"Of  casting  off  allegiance  to  a  name, 
That  was  a  brand  like  a  devouring  flame. 
Whose  mission  'tis  to  bind  the  broken  heart 
Have  their  harpoon  within  the  cankered  smart ; 
Denied  for  her  most  natural  behavior 
The  free  gift  of  the  meek  and  blessed  Savior  — 
Thus  man  dares  measure  God's  Omnipotence 
By  his  own  gauging  of  a  grave  offence. 

"  Hers  were  the  children  !    Could  their  grieving  cries 

Be  made  the  incense  of  her  sacrifice  ? 

Could  they  seek  pity  in  their  mother's  church, 

Would  food  and  shelter  gratify  the  search  ? 

Full  well  we  know  small  bounty  would  be  theirs, 

Save  with  her  name  omitted  from  their  prayers. 

For  do  they  starve  or  beg,  alike  is  flung 

The  blame  at  her  from  each  reviling  tongue. 

1  Tis  modern  chivalry.     Alas  !  the  best, 

If  not  reviling,  scourge  her  with  a  jest." 

We  rode  in  silence.     I  was  awed,  impressed 
By  strange  ideas,  in  such  strong  words  expressed. 
While  heart  and  training  were  at  bitter  strife 
To  reconcile  these  novel  views  of  life, 
There  glimmered  thro'  the  fog  of  education  ; 
A  crude  but  most  uncomfortable  sensation  : 
That  life  held  ills  beyond  my  calculation, 
When  glancing  at  his  garb,  his  belt  and  pistols, 
Studded  with  cartridges  as  bright  as  crystals, 


Strange  Themes.  77 

A  sudden  ponderance  of  the  grotesque 
Made  havoc  of  the  grave  and  picturesque. 

Like  sunlight  flashing  on  a  shaded  stream, 
Responsive  to  my  glance  did  laughter  gleam. 
"I'll  tell  you  now  how  we  rough  miners  woo. 
It  has  one  merit :  it  at  least  is  true." 


LETTER   XIV. 

THREE  PHASES   OF  COLORADO  LIFE. 
COURTSHIP. 

I  HAVEN'T  much  to  offer, 

But  on  the  far  hill-side 
There  is  a  pine-log  cabin 

Where  I  can  take  my  bride. 
The  door  is  off  its  hinges, 

The  chimney  too,  does  smoke, 
It  has  a  nice  south  window, 

But  every  pane  is  broke. 

The  floor  is  hard  and  solid, 

The  roof  in  places  split, 
But  one  day's  honest  labor 

Will  make  a  home  of  it. 
A  table  and  three  camp-stools, 

Bedstead  of  undressed  pine 
Are  all  its  present  fixings  — 

But  then,  there  is  the  mine  ! 


Courtship.  79 

The  North  Star  in  Eureka 

Alone  will  make  us  rich  ; 
The  Golden  Rod  in  Rico  — 

I  hardly  can  guess  which 
Will  bring  the  most  hard  money, 

But  one  thing  I  can  tell : 
It  won't  be  long,  my  charmer, 

Before  you  cut  a  swell. 
Your  dresses  shall  be  velvet 

As  rainbow  colors  bright, 
And  sewed  with  pearls  and  diamonds  — 

You'll  set  the  world  alight. 

Sometimes  she  "  freezes  to  him," 

Sometimes  "  her  pa's  been  there," 
Then  she  mocks  at  his  visions, 

Nor  gives  his  suit  a  care  ; 
As  often  is  reluctant, 

Half  promises  to  wait  — 
But  girls  are  scarce  as  oak  trees  ; 

Besides,  the  whims  of  Fate  ! 

The  mines  may  prove  a  "  fizzle" — 

The  bare  thought  oils  his  tongue 
To  trill  the  same  trite  raptures 

Lovers  have  always  sung. 
Original  his  motto, 

Learned  in  his  Western  life : 
"  I've  as  good  a  right  as  any 

To  take  and  starve  a  wife. 


So  Letters  front  Colorado. 

Here,  "  no  respect  of  persons  " 

Should  read  "  respect  of  things," 
For  sometimes  fickle  Cupid 

Above  them  folds  his  wings. 
Experiment  rash  ?  V-e-r-y ! 

For  practice  so  no  less 
Fails  often — cabin's  small  to  hold 

A  howling  wilderness  ! 

Laughing  I  said  :  "  The  laws  of  compensation 
Should  yield  such  marriages  self-approbation  ; 
There  seems  but  little  else  save  prospects  only, 
To  keep  the  wedded  one  from  growing  lonely." 
"Oh  !  "  he  replied.    "  The  art  of  living  lies 
Less  in  possessions  than  imaginings. 
A  miner  from  his  dungeon  on  the  heights 
Evolves  alike  his  sorrows  and  delights. 
Hope  to  reality  his  life  transforms, 
Intensifies  his  sun,  and  gilds  his  storms. 
'A  Christmas  in  the  cabin'  will  relate 
How  slightly  trifles  do  affect  his  state  : " 

CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  MINER'S  CABIN. 

High  over  peaks  whose  ermine  crest 

It  crowned  with  rainbow  dyes, 
The  sun  smiled  in  th'  expectant  West 

And  tinged  the  purple  skies  ; 
A  blaze  of  brightness  o'er  the  plains 

Its  slanting  radiance  threw, 
And  from  the  cabin's  dirt-grimed  panes 

A  gleam  of  welcome  drew. 


Christmas  in  the  Miner  s  Cabin.  81 

He  paused  to  gaze.     Th'  uplifted  latch, 

From  nerveless  fingers  sliding, 
Let  in  some  truant  beams,  to  catch 

A  glimpse  of  what  was  hiding  — 
Th'  unbroken  silence  held  even  then 

Spell-bound,  a  single  second. 
No  more  for  scattering  pearl  and  gem 

Each  to  the  other  beckoned. 

His  lonely  plate  and  sole  tin-cup 

Flash  out  in  jeweled  splendor; 
His  meager  board  is  garnished  up 

By  magic,  rare  and  tender ; 
His  table  is  a  snowy  cloth, 

His  can,  urn  silver-mounted, 
His  solitary  dip  none  loth 

As  gas  to  be  accounted ; 

His  beans,  a  dish  of  raspberries  gleams, 

His  bacon,  white-fish  toasted, 
His  shapeless  mass  of  biscuit  seems 

A  dainty  turkey  roasted  ; 
A  coil  of  fuse  to  sausage  turns  ; 

A  keg  of  giant  powder 
Benignly  in  the  sunbeams  burns 

A  gallon  pail  of  chowder. 

A  hanging  coat  bathed  in  the  haze 

Assumes  the  form  of  human, 
Revealing  to  his  startled  gaze 

The  side  view  of  a  woman, 


82  Letters  from  Colorado. 

He  rubs  his  eyes.     That  instant  dips 

Behind  the  hills  the  sun ; 
Fast  each  belated  truant  trips, 

Its  little  task  well  done. 

His  home  is  dark,  his  board  is  bare  ! 

"  I  must  have  been  mistaken  ; 
'Tis  a  deceit,  there's  nothing  there 

But  coffee,  beans,  and  bacon. 
Well  "  —  from  his  pocket  takes  a  stone  — 

"  By  Jove  !  this  is  a  whopper  ; 
'Twill  go  ten  thousand  to  the  ton  — 

Galena  and  grey  copper. 

"A  million,  cash  in  hand.     No  less 

Can  I  afford  to  sell  her; 
For  two  I'll  let  her  slide,  I  guess, 

To  that  Chicago  feller." 
So  sweet  Contentment,  which  is  gain, 

Sits  down  with  Hope  beside  him  — 
More  blest  than  we,  who  dream  in  vain, 

So  venture  to  deride  him. 

AT  "THE  BRIDGE." 

"Old  friends,  old  scenes  will  lovelier  be 
As  more  of  heaven  in  each  we  see." 
So  sang  my  heart  as  the  grey  river  glassed 
The  arch  of  heaven  within  it,  as  it  passed, 
Rolled  over  tiny  isles  and  massive  boulders, 
A  joy  forever  to  entranced  beholders. 


At  "  The  Bridge."  83 

It  is  another  of  those  riant  spots 

Parceling  the  Rio  Grande  into  dots 

Of  picturesque  and  perfect  punctuation. 

A  fixed  and  striking  note  of  exclamation 

Is  that  pyramidal,  cave-punctured  rock, 

Giant  memento  of  an  earthquake  shock  ; 

The  bush-decked  banks,  an  undecided  colon, 

That  shrink  or  swell  as  waves  are  low  or  swollen. 

A  period  the  blue  arch  bending  o'er  us 
To  emphasize  the  Rio  Grande's  chorus ; 
The  hills  above,  beyond,  interrogations 
Of  change  in  its  perpetual  gyrations  — 
The  whole  unfolding  clearly,  as  we  look, 
Into  a  faultless  page  from  Nature's  book. 

"  It  is  a  perfect  idyl,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Rightly  the  lovely  Rio   has  been  named. 

Is  it  the  unexpected  yields  such  pleasure  ? 

One  feels  as  falling  sudden  on  a  treasure, 

When  these  delightful  landscapes  greet  the  eyes 

Ever  with  newer  and  more  keen  surprise." 

"  Idyls  of  Colorado  don't  seem  handy  ; 

I  know  none  of  the  lovely  Rio  Grande. 

This  one,  "  he  said  "  is  commonplace  perhaps, 

But  were  our  life  successive  thunderclaps, 

We  should  appreciate  a  restful  lull, 

And  vote  perpetual  rumbling  vilely  dull.  " 


Letters  from  Colorado. 

A  COLORADO  IDYL. 

The  "  Sangre  "  loomed  before  us 

Forbidding  black  as  night ; 
A  pall  funereal  o'er  us 

Intensified  by  light  ; 
Our  "  jack, "  our  beast  of  burden, 

Disdained  our  pigmy  wrath, 
And  cheerful  seemed  the  guerdon 

Of  sleeping  in  a  bath. 

A  growl  like  muttered  thunder 

Boomed  from  our  muleteer ; 
"  Our  jack  has  slipped  from  under 

And  dumped  our  provender.  " 
Meanwhile  looked  on  that  donkey, 

Always  benignly  smiling, 
Like  some  cherubic  monkey 

Obtuse  to  all  reviling. 

Our  sugar  was  the  sweetest 

Concentered  to  all  taste  ; 
Our  flapjacks  were  the  neatest 

Of  fancy  jujube  paste  ; 
Our  coffee,  ordered  after, 

Was  truly  past  compare, 
And  in  a  gulp  of  laughter 

We  swallowed  down  a  "  svvare." 

The  rain  poured  on,  a  torrent 
In  necks  and  over  faces  ; 

Predicament  abhorent 
To  all  Caucassian  races  ! 


A   Colorado  Idyl.  85 

We  flung  our  blankets  round  us, 

Striving  to  cheat  the  wet ; 
And  thus  the  day-close  found  us, 

A  rather  rueful  set. 

Just  as  in  burst  of  splendor 

Shone  out  the  dying  sun, 
Serenely  bound  to  render 

Amends  for  evil  done, 
He  took  his  dainty  pencil, 

Limned  sky,  and  clouds,  and  trees, 
With  glowing  bits  of  stencil 

In  rarest  traceries. 

Gold,  orange,  salmon,  crimson, 

Were  blended  faint  with  green, 
To  tip  the  purple  rims  on 

The  clouds  that  hung  between  ; 
His  slanting  rays  streamed  from  us 

Thro'  all  the  moistened  air ; 
And  one  great  bow  of  promise 

Made  earth  divinely  fair. 

The  "  Sangre's  "  summits  glowing 

In  countless  hues  and  dyes, 
His  snowy  raiment  flowing 

Alive  before  our  eyes, 
What  wonder  fortune  beckoned 

Above  or.r  trifling  cares, 
And  we  were  in  a  second 

Prospective  millionaires  ? 


LETTER    XV. 

LEGEND  OF  ANTELOPE    SPRINGS  GAP. 

A  CLEFT,  or  gap,  formed  by  the  mighty  forces 

That  Nature  brings  from  fathomless  resources, 

It  bounds  the  high-way,  towering,  grand,  imposing, 

In  rugged  strength  and  majesty  reposing  — 

A  natural  fortress  in  a  time  of  slaughter, 

O'er  a  ravine  without  a  sign  of  water ; 

Outlines  of  tower,  impervious  battlements, 

Its  stately  bulwark  to  the  eye  presents. 

Westward  and  to  the  left  stretches  a  valley 

Where  legions  in  united  strength  might  rally. 

The  snowy  range,  known  as  the  Great  Divide, 

Turning  all  streams  to  the  Pacific  side, 

Like  a  whole  clan  of  kings  with  honors  hoary, 

Rear  their  white  heads  in  uncontested  glory, 

And  peer  above  the  pigmy  earth  below, 

Clad  in  imperial  robes  of  spotless  snow, 

To  the  colossal  scene  of  loveliness 

A  legend  adds  a  touch  of  tenderness, 

And  calls  to  mind  the  jealous  Jewish  king 

To  whom  the  stripling  David  used  to  sing, 

Whose  harp  and  voice  exorcised  from  his  breast 

The  friends  of  wrath  and  shivering  unrest. 


Legend  of  Antelope  Springs  Gap.  87 

Chiapa,  monarch  of  the  Ilascalans. 
Fought  in  this  valley  with  the  savage  clans 
Of  the  rude  North  ;  and  as  their  legends  tell, 
His  trained  battalions  in  vast  numbers  fell. 

He,  sick  with  anger,  brooding  in  his  tent, 
Fondled  the  demons,  Wrath  and  Discontent, 
And  none  had  power  to  chase,  or  exorcise 
While  death  lowered  dark  from  disaffected  eyes. 


Malia,  a  youth  of  marvellous  grace, 
Like  David,  fair  of  form  and  face, 
Left  herds  untended  on  the  plain, 
To  watch  the  carnage  and  the  slain  ; 
And  when  the  battle  paused  at  night, 
By  songs  turned  the  dark  hours  to  light ; 
Above  the  camp-fire's  ruddy  glow 
The  wond'rous  notes  would  ebb  and  flow, 
Out  o'er  the  ravished  army  ring, 
Until  they  reached  the  startled  King. 

Like  Saul,  Chiapa,  sore  oppressed 
By  spirits  he  had  erst  caressed, 
Knew  neither  solitude  nor  rest. 
His  wearied  courtiers  plied  in  vain 
All  balms,  upon  the  viewless  pain, 
Till  Malia's  voice  swelled  on  the  air 
As  hovers  Hope  above  Despair. 


88  Letters  from  Colorado. 

The  King,  with  slowly  kindling  eye, 
Yielded  before  the  melody 
That  seemed  a  breath  of  sorcery, 
Forming  charmed  circles  round  his  head 
Till  discontent  and  anger  fled, 
Leaving  armed  Courage  in  his  stead. 

The  stripling's  songs  brought  ever  restful  peace. 

A  lavish  honor  every  effort  crowned. 

Nor  here  to  David  does  resemblance  cease, 

For  courtiers  envied,  jealous  favorites,  frowned  ; 

Ever  full  armed,  superior  fortune  brings 

A  ready  host,  supplied  with  slurs  and  stings. 

Short  was  poor  Malia's  term  of  favor;  — 

Malice,  perchance  some  crude  behavior 

(He  being  but  of  tender  years) 

Adds  his  to  many  like  careers 

Fashioned  upon  a  monarch's  truth. 

The  voice  of  the  ill-fated  youth 

Forgot  its  cunning,  failed  to  please  — 

To  bring  the  chafing  tyrant  ease  ; 

And  thro'  a  quick  repented  burst  of  ire 

Envy  and  malice  gratified  desire. 

There,  where  the  highest  point  of  rocks 
With  the  blue  heaven  interlocks, 
Clangor  from  answering  peak  to  peak, 
Drowning  the  hapless  victim's  shriek 
That  even  pity  could  not  hear  — 
Forced  to  the  brink  by  hounding  spear, 


Legend  of  Antelope  Springs  Gap.  89 

His  comely  youth  and  budding  beauty 
To  glinting-eyed  revenge  paid  duty. 
The  marshaled  legions  all  afield 
In  full  regalia,  spear  and  shield, 
Saw  his  young  body  cleave  in  twain 
Before  it  reached  the  rock-strewn  plain. 

Westward  the  sun  in  gorgeous  dyes 
Panoplied  peaks  and  arching  skies, 
Enwrapped  the  torn  mass  in  a  fold 
Of  glittering  rays  like  molten  gold. 
And  some  aver,  his  spirit  yet 
Traverses  peak  and  minaret ; 
When  sunset  hues  flood  the  ravine 
A  glowing  figure  may  be  seen, 
White  robed  like  martyred  saints  of  old, 
Crested  with  auriole  of  gold. 

The  legend  greater  credence  gains, 
That  King  Chiapa  strewed  the  plains 
Lavishly  with  his  noble  dead ; 
Then,  like  a  coward,  basely  fled. 
Shorn  of  all  former  power  and  glory, 
Slighted  alike  in  song  and  story, 
He  lived  defiant  of  his  fate, 
A  target  for  contempt  and  hate 


LETTER  XVI. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

TONIGHT,  a  crescent  moon  sails  on  a  sea 

Of  blue,  as  boundless  as  eternity. 

Where  a  faint  tinge  of  amber  lingers  yet, 

A  fading  memory  tinctured  with  regret. 

The  gaunt,  grey  ranges  outlined  on  the  shore 

Are  tender  as  the  days  that  come  no  more  ; 

While  radiating  from  its  home  afar, 

Like  deathless  Hope,  beams  forth  the  evening  star, 

And  silence  brooding  the  divinest  calm, 

Holds  a  great  chord  in  Nature's  perfect  psalm. 

"To  the  ridiculous  from  the  sublime 

Is  but  a  step,  "  an  adage  old  as  time. 

While  our  enraptured  senses  swept  the  skies, 

Drinking  in  draughts  of  beauty  thro'  our  eyes, 

One  spake,  (a  fellow  ever  finding  motes  ), 

"  We'  re  apt  to  have  some  wet  before  she  floats  "  — 

Meaning  the  crescent,  and  our  sudden  fall 

Was  \vorse  than  Caesar's  at  the  Capitol. 


Night  and  Morning.  91 

We  shivered  as  if  rain  were  making  tracks 
Already  down  our  unresisting  backs, 
Nor  did  it  brighten  matters,  that  we  knew 
Sometimes  his  horrid  prophecies  came  true. 

There  are  a  dozen  camp-fires  on  the  plains, 
Heavy   freight  teams,  and  unpacked  burro-trains, 
With  creatures  all  alike,  save  black  or  white, 
I  wonder  how  their  owners  know  the  right, 
For  tho'  not  birds,  beasts  are  they  of  a  feather, 
And  fraternize  to  eat  and  plot  together. 

The  heavens  curtain  all,  so  gemmed  with  gold, 
They  are  a  beauteous  marvel  to  behold. 
As  I  unblest  of  sleep,  pass  from  the  tent 
To  share  with  solitude  my  discontent, 
A  homesick  ache  is  gnawing  at  my  heart, 
All  whom  I  love  and  I  are  wide  apart ; 
And  this  primeval  beauty  weighs  like  care. 
The  massive  ranges,  crested  white  or  bare, 
With  foothills  into  densest  shadow  cast, 
Seem  haunted  with  the  spirit  of  the  past. 
Their  very  magnitude  is  weird,  unreal, 
Shades  undefined  across  their  silence  steal 
Where  the  huge  peaks  in  god-like  grandeur  rise 
And  god-like  keep  their  buried  mystery. 

Morning  is  here  and  utter  desolation 
Broods  with  despair  above  the  whole  creation ; 
At  least  on  our  creation,  for  tho'  small, 
Yet  being  ours  that  pronoun  covers  all. 


92  Letters  from  Colorado. 

It  rained,  it  rains,  and  every  thing  is  wet  — 
Dame  Nature  liquidates  a  standing  debt, 
From  parsimony  jumps  to  lavish  waste, 
Pays  compound  interest  with  unseemly  haste. 
The  tent  is  soaked,  and  leaks,  our  clothes  and  beds 
Converted  are  to  watertanks  and  sheds ; 
Shed  but  a  fraction,  while  the  bulk  seeps  in, 
Drenching  the  raptured  dreamer  to  the  skin, 
While  the  foundation  of  a  deluge  creeps 
Beneath  the  tent  line  where  he  sweetly  sleeps. 
The  wood  is  damp,  and  utterly  refuses 
To  lend  itself  a  slave  to  man's  abuses. 

This  tests  a  comrade  to  the  very  soul. 

As  in  disgust  all  from  their  baths  unroll 

The  natural  Adam  of  each  one  crops  out. 

Some  fling  their  blankets  from  them  with  a  flout ; 

Some  bite  their  lips ;  some  vent  their  wrath  in  curses. 

Show  a  rebellious  spirit  at  reverses  ; 

One  is  quite  blessed,  the  fellow  seeking  motes  : 

"  We  truly  have  some  wet  before  she  floats." 

He  puts  on  airs  (this  people  call  it  style), 

Surveys  our  misery  with  a  pitying  smile  ; 

But  abject  silence  answers  him  ;  the  calm 

Falls  on  his  self-contentment  like  a  balm, 

Till  bolder  grown,  watching  our  wordless  woe, 

He  drawls  out  the  remark,  "  I  told  you  so." 

'Tis  like  a  bombshell  in  a  magazine, 
As  quickly  makes  a  havoc  on  the  scene  ; 


Night  and  Morning.  93 

Our  much-enduring  cook  now  maddened  quite, 
Flings  down  the  kindling  wood  that  will   not  light, 
Catches  the  prophet  roughly  by  the  throat, 
Hissing  between  his  teeth,  "You  go  and  float; 
As  you'  re  so  glorified  because  it  rains 
You  ought  to  have  the  pleasure  for  your  pains." 
He  helps  him  with  his  boot  toe  thro'  the  door, 
And  coolly  turns  to  try  the  fire  once  more. 
As  if  an  evil  spirit  had  departed 
At  the  first  match  a  merry  blaze  up  started, 
Flashed  on  the  lowering  faces  in  the  tent, 
Chasing  the  lingering  gleams  of  discontent ; 
Laughter  and  jest  once  more  resumed  their  sway 
And  held  a  royal  carnival  all  day. 


LETTER  XVII. 

MELODRAMATIC. 

THIS  wandering  life  throws  you  with  strange  companions 

From  city  streets,  mines,  mountain-tops  and  canons. 

Here,  nature  is  in  earnest ;  if  she  shines, 

She  duplicates  the  mighty  Apennines  ; 

And  all  her  rain  a  driving  torrent  pours, 

As  heaven  were  emptying  long-treasured  stores. 

To-night  it  hides  the  nearer  range  from  view, 

And  veils  the  foothills  in  a  dull  grey  hue. 

We  gather  in  the  tent,  a  motley  crowd, 
Forced  by  the  din  to  shriek  our  thoughts  aloud. 
We  have  new  comers  :  one,  from  San  Miguel, 
I  dare  aver  can  spin  a  merry  tale, 
Judging  him  only  by  his  wicked  eyes, 
Which  are  but  solemn  when  concocting  lies. 
He  has  a  swaggering  gait,  a  traveled  look, 
Knows  things  you  never  find  in  any  book, 
Enjoys  his  life  with  an  unanswering  jest. 
Because  of  every  good  he  grabs  the  best. 


Melodramatic.  95 

One  other,  and  at  last,  oh  wondering  friend, 

What  is  a  "tenderfoot,"  I  comprehend  : 

He  rides  in  broadcloth,  patent-boots,  and  kids, 

See  him  !  —  his  eyes  half  starting  from  their  lids. 

It's  simply  ravishing,  just  to  behold  him 

Devouring  all  the  marvels  that  are  told  him 

With  a  credulity  that  knows  no  bounds, 

As  truth  were  always  robed  in  startling  sounds. 

He  uses  English  Latinized :  each  word 

Enunciated  to  be  plainly  heard, 

His  note-book  on  his  knees,  with  facile  fingers, 

Skilled  in  stenography,  he  never  lingers 

To  sift  th*  astounding  wonders  that  he  hears, 

From  mining  accident  to  "  Injun  skeers." 

He  of  the  San  Miguel  speaks  native  slang, 
And  emphasizes  with  a  rapid  bang ; 
The  sounds  recall  Mark  Twain's  Nevada  preacher, 
Listening  to  "  Scotty  "  as  a  language  teacher. 
The  theme  gives  broader  license  to  his  tongue  : 
He  does  not  "  draw  it  mild,  "  his  scenes  are  strung 
Together  with  an  utter  disregard 
Of  any  fitness  on  the  writer's  card. 

And  oh,  such  tales !  Dumas  and  Jules  Verne 

May  bury  laurels  they  so  poorly  earn. 

His  ingenuity  is  on  the  spur, 

His  eager  audience  too  absorbed  to  stir  ; 

For  the  whole  clan  abet ;   no  questioning  glance 

Reveals  a  doubt  concerning  his  romance, 


9  5  Letters  from  Colorado. 

And  the  poor  "  tenderfoot  "    is  — yes,  betrayed 
By  the  companions  his  distress  has  made. 

He  hails  from  Boston  ;  most  distinctly  feels 

A  super-excellence  that  pride  conceals. 

He  cannot  cast  his  precious  pearls  to  swine, 

Or  teach  the  blind  how  bright  the  sun  can  shine  ; 

Strives  to  be  courteous,  but  his  best  attempt 

Is  oddly  spiced  with  ill-disguised  contempt ; 

His  curious,  prying  eagerness  to  know, 

Is  like  a  child's  at  his  first  wild-beast  show. 

Albeit  the  Boston  traveller  is  no  fool, 

He  has  not  lost  th'  ideas  he  gleaned  at  school ; 

Abhors  the  Indian  of  far  Mayflower  time 

As  a  dark  horror  native  to  the  clime  ; 

The  savage  with  the  miner  still  confounds, 

Hardly  on  strictly  scientific  grounds, 

But  still  he  feels  the  childish  thrill  of  fear 

Congeal  his  blood,  when  any  miner's  near. 

Dire  consequences  follow  slight  effects. 
His  manners  hurt  him  as  he  least  expects. 
Magnetic  currents  pass  from  one  to  one, 
Needing  no  spoken  word,  no  action  done ; 
Each  feels  th'  antipathy  he  does  not  speak, 
Repays  with  interest  th'  ungenerous  freak  ; 
The  Boston  swell  a  churl  the  miner  dubs, 
Miner  retaliates  with  jests  and  snubs, 
And  ridicule  lacks  never  poisoned  barb, 
To  pierce  the  web  of  any  human  garb. 


Melodramatic.  97 

He  of  the  San  Miguel,  tho'  he  has  told 

Of  Indian  massacres  and  fields  of  gold, 

Is  telling  now  a  jumbling  pack  of  lies 

That  in  his  listener  waken  no  surprise  ; 

But  growing  bold  and  bolder  with  success, 

He  mixes  dates  in  reckless  lavishness. 

He  has  not  seen  a  score  and  half  of  years, 

Yet  he  relates  the  "  horrid  Injun  skeers 

Of  '49,  when  I  was  in  command 

Of  a  small  U.  S.  scouting  cavalry  band, 

All  regular  muffs,  not  one  fit  for  the  journey ; 

My  first  lieutenant  was  a  learned  attorney  — 

U.  S.  Chief  Justice  in  the  time  of  Jackson  — 

A  gawky  fellow  by  the  name  of  Paxon  ; 

The  mean  red  devils  pinned  him  to  a  stake, 

Had  pinon  piled  around  him  for  a  bake, 

When  I  rode  up,  for   Uncle  Sam  demanded 

The  roast  to  feed  the  squadron  I  commanded  —  " 

"  The  date,"  asked  the  Bostonian,  "  I  opine 

You  stated  formerly  —  't  was  '49." 

"Yes,"  unabashed  the  graceless  youth  replied, 
"  'T  was  in  that  year  that  their  King  Philip  died  !  " 
The  astounded  "  tenderfoot "  was  just  a  show, 
Light  breaking  on  him  in  a  gentle  glow. 

"Your  tender  years,  pardon  me  if  I  err, 
Scarcely  appear  such  honors  to  confer 
In  '49  ;  time  has  passed  lightly  o'  er  you  — 
You  have  life's  tribulations  all  before  you  ; 


98  Letters  from  Colorado. 

I  do  mistake,  or  fail  to  understand 
Precisely  what  the  date  of  your  command  " 

"  We  don't  grow  old  out  here  in  Colorado. 

It  is,  you  know,  a  sort  of  El  Dorado; 

For  me,  I'  ve  seen  these  hoary,  snow-clad  ranges 

Before  my  eyes  pass  thro'  some  wondrous  changes; 

I  came  here  when   the  plains  were  lakes  and   rills 

And  these  great  mountains  little  sandy  hills.  " 

This  was  too  much ;  all  joined  the  shouts  of  laughter 
That  shook  the  tent  from  pins  to  ridge-pole  rafter, 
And  to  the  "  tenderfoot "  Bostonian  told 
That  as  to  stories  he  was  badly  sold. 


LETTER   XVIII. 

CAMP  AFTER    RAIN. 

CAMP-LIFE  has  many  phases, 
But  he  has  lived  in  vain 

Who  has  not  heard  the  campers 
Improvise  a  refrain 

To  greet  the  opening  morning, 
After  a  night  of  rain. 

'  Tis  natural  and  flowing, 
Of  flow  not  easy  checked  ; 

While  shapes  in  demi-toilet 
Of  many  colors  decked 

Make  somewhat  more  emphatic 
The  total  stage  effect. 

He  is  accounted  lucky, 
Whose  garniture  is  slack, 

Who  can  wring  out  his  garments 
And  dry  them  on  his  back  ; 

He  can  soon  sum  possessions  — 
Camp  outfit  and  a  "jack, " 


ioo  Letters  from  Colorado. 

His  hand  a  cudgel  carries, 
But  '  twixt  himself  and  beast, 

Their  happy  state  engenders 
True  harmony  at  least, 

Which  to  the  human  partner 
Is  a  perpetual  feast. 

The  glorious  sky  hangs  over, 
The  hot  earth  hurts  his  toes, 

The  sun  pours  down  obliquely  — 
And  blisters  cheek  and  nose, 

Yet  in  divine  contentment, 
Serenely  on  he  goes. 

For  is  he  not  a  miner 

And  life  a  gorgeous  dream  ? 

The  evils  of  the  present 
Merge  in  his  silver  seam ; 

The  goal  absorbs  the  passage  ; 
Things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


He  dreams  of  how  to  work  it, 
Where  best  to  ship  the  ore, 

Deposit  with  some  banker, 
Or  hold  the  bulk  in  store 

Till  he  has  dumped  a  billion 
Or  a  few  millions  more. 


Camp  after  Rain.  101 

Oh,  Hope  :  No  other  captain 

Can  muster  such  reserves 
Of  tireless  strength  and  muscle 

Of  tense  unflagging  nerves, 
Till  all  the  quailing  body 

A  willing  subject  serves. 

True,  partial  are  her  favors  ; 

She  plods  beside  the  tramp, 
For  all  her  airy  legions 

Abominate  the  damp, 
Make  expeditious  exit 

Beyond  the  wretched  camp. 


There  evanescent  treasures, 

Classed  with  the  genus  "  things," 

Have  followed  Hope's  example 
And  speedy  taken  wings. 

He  only  has  the  dryest 
Who  gives  the  hardest  wrings. 

Each  one  selects  his  specials, 

Adjusts  them  on  a  line, 
And  all  the  prairie  wonders 

To  see  herself  so  fine  — 
A  Colorado  rainbow 

Just  pales  before  that  shine. 


IO2  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Our  artist  caught  the  spirit, 
And  while  his  shirt  was  drying 

He  sent  his  facile  fingers 
Across  his  canvas  flying. 

The  natural  poise  of  models 
Was  wholly  gratifying. 

Now  is  the  sky  all  velvet, 
No  cloud  above  our  heads, 

But  column  upon  column 
Along  th'  horizon  spreads, 

Foretelling  that  to-morrow 
Will  have  more  soaking-beds. 


LETTER  XIX. 

IN  ANTELOPE  PARK. 

I  AM  sitting  now  at  sunset  beside  the  Rio  Grande, 
The  Rio  Grande  del  Norte,  as  it  winds  among  the  hills 
Creeping   thro'  its  rocky    canons    like    a    shimmering 

silver  band, 
Singing  as  it  widens  slowly,  quavers  soft  and  happy  trills, 

When  the  sky  above  is  sapphire,  save  a  gorgeous  crimson 

streak 
That  enfolds  the  Western  ranges  like  a  garment  edged 

with  gold, 
Spreading  as  the  day  grows  fainter  to  the  crown  of  every 

peak, 
Gathering  gleams  of  green  and  purple  to  eke  out  each 

widening  fold  ; 

And  the  twilight  steps  on  tiptoe  thro'  the  undulating  air, 
Haunting  all  the  tender  solitude  with  shadows  faintly 

seen, 

Till  a  tremor  half  of  terror  creeps  upon  you,  unaware, 
As  shades  of  the  departed  ones  were  peopling  all  the 

scene. 


IO4  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Tis  now  the  hazy  future  into  bold  relief  is  cast, 
And  the  spirit  of  the  canons  wails  a  dirge  above  the  past : 
But  a  sigh  among  the  pinons  thro'  the  golden  afternoon 
While  the    busy  sun  was  fashioning  a  coronet  for  June, 
Now  with   voice  of  tortured  demon  on  the  confines  of 

despair, 
He  is  sobbing  out  his  anguish  to  the  gulches  in  mid-air. 

You  can  see  him  gaunt   and    fleshless,  fling   his   arms 

above  the  ranges, 
Warning    off    the  eager    present  from  her  pond'rous 

work  of  changes  ; 
But  clear  above  the  clangor  progress  winds  her  clarion 

notes, 
On  the   summit's  nearest  heaven  her  imperial  banner 

floats. 
She  has  found  a  way  o'er  chasms  that  panthers   fear  to 

leap  — 
A  foothold  among  crevices  where  serpent    dares   not 

creep  — 
Planted  stakes   on  arching   ledges  that  do   mock    the 

eagle's  hold, 
Only  to  fling  out  into  light  a  buried  heart  of  gold. 

Little  yet  her  step  has  tarried  in  the  valley's  at  our 
feet  — 

She  prefers  the  snow-clad  ranges  for  a  royal  country  seat, 

Till  the  golden  heart  is  blazoned  to  the  eyes  of  Chris 
tendom  ; 

In  her  train  no  waifs  of  luxury,  no  pets  of  comfort  come, 


In  Antelope  Park.  105 

Suffering  is  her  mighty  roll-call,  want  the  signal  of  the  line? 
Hardihood,    unflagging   patience,    hope    supreme    and 
faith  divine. 

Hail,  braves  that  join  her  standard,  with  scrip  and  staff 

in  hand, 
With  girded  loins,  with  upturned  face  !     Eyes  watching 

where  you  stand, 

Shall  note  the  dignity  of  toil,  and  from  your  beacon  fires 
Borrow  a  ray  of  living  light  to  gild  new  temple  spires. 
Mount  up  with  wings  as  eagles,  nor  faint  nor  be  you  weary 
Till  floats  the  banner  of  success  above  your  golden  eyrie. 

Attained,  all   great   desire    narrows  down  the  brilliant 

scope 
That  was  spread  to  huge    proportions  by  the  magic 

touch  of  hope, 
But  this  land  of  untried  sources  shall  spur  the  world  to 

dare, 
For    faith   that  girds  the  loins  of  hope   lightens  the 

very  air ; 

The  blue  arch  is  so  perfect,  the  buoyant  breeze  so  free, 
They  feed  great  inspirations  like  a  blast  from  off  the  sea, 
And  surging  like  to  tidal  waves  glad  people  thronging 

come 
To  plant  upon  her  rugged  breast  the  altar  stone  of  home. 

Man  feels  the  Godhead  in   his  soul,  he   knows   himself 

divine, 
When  upright  on  these  mighty  hills  among  pifion  and 

and  pine. 


io6  Letters  from  Colorado. 

What  wonder  lovers  turn  to  thee  as  flowers  turn  to  the 

sun, 

O  beauteous  Colorado,  neither  coy  nor  lightly  won  ! 
Beloved  of  thy  children,  whose  one  ambition  seems 
To  make  the  lamp  of  Aladdin  no  more  a  thing  of  dreams 
But  a  superb  reality  hewn  from  thy  mountain  seams. 


LETTER    XX. 

LEGEND    OF    ANTELOPE    PARK. 

ALL  nations  have  some  tale  to  tell 
Of  timid  fawn,  or  shy  gazelle  ; 
And  many  a  hardy  mountain  child 
Knows  where  their  haunts  in  covert  wild, 

One  told  me  this.     Her  cabin  stood 
Within  a  grove  of  cottonwood 
Where,  like  a  group  of  wordless  notes, 
The  Rio  Grande's  anthem  floats 
Echoing  thro'  canons  straight  and  tall 
As  any  city's  rampart  walls  ; 
And  where  in  lavish  beauty  grows 
The  fragile,  delicate  wild  rose, 
Of  perfume  sweet  and  color  faint 
As  timid  maid,  or  gentle  saint. 

And  not  unlike  a  saint  was  she 
As  stately  half,  half  timidly, 


io8  Letters  from  Colorado. 

She  pointed  where  the  shadows  lay 
In  the  west  canon,  cold  and  grey, 
And  told  me  this,  the  while  her  eyes 
Grew  awed  at  her  own  mysteries : 

41  Ages  ago,  before  the  white  man  knew 

There  was  a  continent  he  had  not  seen 
Before  the  Mexicans  to  power  grew  — 

The  northern  hordes  were  govern'd  by  a  queen 

"  Called  Maxtella,  of  virtue  so  supreme 

It  was  the  marvel  of  those  evil  days; 
Of  beauty  perfect  as  a  poet's  dream, 

That  language  found  no  words  to  sing  its  praise. 

"  A  vassal  chief  loved  her,  but  being  low  born, 
Her  counsellors  spurned  him  with  infinite  scorn, 
And  he  in  revenge  brought  his  black  magic  art 
To  aid  in  subduing  the  queen's  gentle  heart. 

"  He  brought  powers  of  evil  to  bear  on  her  will, 
Edged  'round  all  her  goings  with  hindrance  cruel, 

Changed  every  quick  motive  to  action  so  chill 
As  turned  her  sweet  mercy  to  pitiless  rule. 

"  He  forced  her  to  speak  that  she  fain  would  not  speak 
Commit  deeds  unholy  she  fain  would  not  do, 

Indignities  bear  with  a  fortitude  meek  — 

Harsh  blows,  that  the  blood  from  her  white  body  drew  ; 

"  Till  eyes  overworn  failed  of  moisture  to  weep, 
So  long  had  he  baffled  her  anguish  for  sleep, 


Legend  of  Antelope  Park.  169 

When  a  page,  but  a  youth,  not  a  score  were  his  years, 
Saw  him  strike  the  sad  eves  for  their  absence  of  tears. 


"And  a  fury  possessed  him ;  with  one  mighty  bound 
He  held  the  rude  sorcerer  pinned  to  the  ground, 
With  his  own  magic  wand  pinned  him,  writhing  in  vain, 
For  he  knew  but  a  wizard  might  loose  him  again. 

"  But  the  good  Maxtella  was  as  noble  as  fair 

And  seeing  the  odious  wretch  bleeding  there, 

With  her  own  dainty  hands  did  she  strive  to  assuage. 

Her  pity  was  only  as  fuel  to  his  rage. 

He  caught  her  right  hand  in  his  sharp  gleaming  teeth, 

And  as  she  in  agony  shrieked,  hissed  beneath  : 

"  Now  are  we  one  forever,  for  with  mine 
Thy  blood  is  mixed  as  water  flows  to  wine 
Of  thy  free  will,  and  by  my  living  hate 
Hold  I  supremest  power  above  thy  fate. 
Timid  of  heart,  fleet-footed,  spotless  white, 
Whom  none  may  slay,  Doe  pass  before  my  sight ! 
Shame  by  thy  speed  the  panting  hunters  breath, 
And  lure  him  by  thy  beauty  to  his  death. 

"  'Yea,  mine,  forever  mine,  until  the  dart 

Of  a  pursuer,  with  unerring  aim, 
Shall  pierce  the  centre  of  thy  coward  heart 

Bringing  cold  death  to  cover  up  thy  shame.' 


no  Letters  from  Colorado. 

"  A  milk-white  doe,  with  a  most  piteous  moan, 
Fled  from  the  palace,  shunning  every  eye, 

Hiding  in  brake,  or  sheltered  gulch,  alone, 
Fleeing  in  terror  with  no  hunter  nigh ; 

"  Yet  longing  for  the  dart  that  may  release, 

She  often  heads  the  herds  that  sweep  these  vales, 

But  who  pursues  finds  everlasting  peace, 
Nor  comes  again  to  tell  his  hunting  tales. 

"  They  say  that  canon  shelters  many  a  corse, 

And  venturous  youths  still  seek  the  milk-white  doe. 

None  come  again  of  huntsman,  dog  or  horse, 
Their  bones  lie  bleaching  in  eternal  snow." 


LETTER   XXI. 


A    COLORADO    TRAMP. 

SCURRYING  about  like  frightened  fish  in  shoals, 
I  Ve  counted  something  over  eight  score  souls, 
A  half  score  prairie-schooners,  idly  lying 
Becalmed,  while  slowly  muddy  pools  are  drying. 
As  burro-trains,  delayed  by  storms,  arrive, 
A  busy  congress  very  much  alive, 
The  schooners  instant  wake  to  active  life, 
The  packers  into  energetic  strife, 
Nor  is  it  long- before  the  hapless  jacks 
Are  neatly  fitted  with  well  ordered  packs. 

Odd  when  in  droves ;  more  comical  is  one, 
A  tramp  beside  him  stolid  stumping  on, 
Sharing  his  burden  too,  for  never  yet 
Was  miner  known  to  overload  his  pet 
A  pet  he  is,  and  shares  as  equal  lord 
The  frugal  dainties  of  his  master's  board. 
Sometimes  a  burro  and  two  tramps  we  see, 
Or  one  and  four,  or  one  to  six  may  be ; 


112  Letters  from   Colorado. 

Nor  heavier  worked  as  having  masters  more, 

He  bears  the  kitchen  implements  before 

The  grub-box,  with  its  simple  fare  close  hid 

Beneath  a  clasp  and  lock-protected  lid  : 

The  only  secret  hidden  from  beholders,— 

While  beds  are  strapped,  each  on  the  owner's  shoulders. 

Do  not  mistake  ;  by  tramp  I  never  mean 
The  non-describable  you  've  often  seen  — 
A  hang-dog  look,  a  shiftless  shambling  gait, 
A  tout-ensemble  enough  to  weary  fate. 
Unlike  even  at  first  sight  (I  did  describe 
The  items  which  distinguish  all  the  tribe) 
This  species  is  indigenous  to  the  soil, 
A  cross  between  a  shirk  and  son  of  toil, 
And  at  some  cunning  crafc  or  dextrous  trade 
A  mark  for  industry  had  doubtless  made  ; 
But  this  wild  life  or  these  bewildering  skies 
Make  honest  labor  hateful  in  his  eyes. 

Possessing  often  mines  of  wealth  untold, 
His  purse  almost  a  stranger  is  to  gold  ; 
For  all  he  earns,  can  borrow  or  edge  round 
Is  shot  with  reckless  faith  into  the  ground, 
To  bring  an  increase  manifold  perhaps, 
Or  expedite  a  general  collapse. 
Failure  he  meets  with  stoical  sang-froid, 
Success  much  like  a  happy-hearted  boy, 
Spends  as  he  won,  with  a  too  ready  ease  — 
He  can  get  more,  and  has  himself  to  please. 


A  Colorado  Tramp.  1 1 3 

What  think  you,  is  his  state  more  blessed  or  cursed  ? 
His  motto  as  of  old  "  Pike's  Peak  or  burst !  " 

We  had  a  tramp  come  to  our  camp  last  night, 
Bedraggled,  weary,  hungry,  in  worse  plight  , 

Than  Lazarus  lying  at  the  rich  man's  door  — 
So  bruised  he  was,  so  abject  and  footsore  ; 
After  his  inner  man  was  comforted, 
Talked  like  a  volume  one  has  never  read. 

He  talked  of  many  things,  reform,  free  trade, 
Of  stocks  and  funds,  how  modern  mining  paid, 
Drifted  to  rich  discoveries  and  their  weight 
In  building  up  the  grandeur  of  a  state, 
Thence  to  first  years  of  California  fame 
When  the  gold  fever  ravaged  like  a  flame, 
Lapping  with  fiery  tongues  our  youthful  braves 
From  tender  homes  into  untimely  graves. 

Bewitched  by  gold  that  often  met  their  hands 
Among  a  worthless  mass  of  yellow  sands, 
A  hundred  thousand  dollars  seemed  a  mite, 
Easy  of  gain,  to  their  confused  sight ; 
And  worsted  fifty  times,  owned  no  defeat. 
So  long  as  they  could  struggle  to  their  feet, 
They  labored  on  with  varying  success. 
The  fickle  goddess  did  not  always  bless, 
More  often  frowned.     One  hardly  need  to  say 
That  hundred  thousand  seldom  saw  the  day. 

"  Indeed,"  the  speaker  said,  "  I've  seen  the  time 
Mv  total  wealth  did  not  exceed  a  dime  ; 


H4  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Glad  then  to  drop  four  cyphers  from  the  five 
And  call  myself  the  luckiest  man  alive. 
But  'twas  conceded  who  tried  fortune  there 
Cancelled  the  right  to  falter  or  despair: 
When  things  became  too  desperate,  we  left  — 
Some  took  to  privateering,  some  to  theft, 
A  few  worked  hard  to  gain  a  livelihood, 
Convert  their  spendthrift  energies  to  good; 
These  last  are  men  'tis  generally  allowed, 
Of  which  our  Uncle  Sam  may  well  be  proud, 
For  lessons  learned  so  roughly  can  but  count 
In  summing  up  the  total,  grand  amount. 

"  Mining  is  much  the  same  in  any  place. 
Starting  together,  some  head  in  the  race. 
I've  had  my  gains  and  losses,  hardly  more 
Than  usual  fall  at  any  miner's  door. 
Large  as  an  egg  a  nugget  once  I  found, 
Nor  slept  again  until  I  owned  the  ground  ; 
Washed  and  re-washed  the  soil  with  patient  care 
But  saw  no  trace  of  color  anywhere. 
That  speculation  left  me  penniless,  in  debt, 
With  an  experience  hardly  to  forget. 

"  My  fortune  changed  :  I  found  a  quartz  mine  next, 

Lived  in  a  dug-out,  neighbors  never  vexed ; 

In  five  months  picked  ten  thousand  of  pure  gold, 

Then  grew  insane  to  see  the  treasure  sold. 

At  San  Francisco  spent  it  like  a  king, 

In  six  months  little  owned  if  anything, 


A   Colorado   Tramp.  1 1 5 

And  in  disgust  struck  out  for  Colorado, 
Which  best  deserves  the  name  of  El  Dorado." 

Said  one  :  "  In  Colorado  has  not  been 

A  mine  like  that,  and  gold  is  never  seen." 

"No?"  cried  the  tramp,  ejecting  forth  the  word 

Till  through  the  crowd  like  hissing  bomb  'twas  heard  — 

"  No  ?  Your  assertion  even  at  a  glance 

Shows  either  spite  or  willful  ignorance. 

Gold  was  the  lode-star  of  the  pioneers  ; 

Silver  undreamed  of  in  the  early  years, 

When  the  first  miners,  brave  and  self  reliant, 

Came  to  San  Juan  and  found  the  '  Little  Giant.' 

Gold  was  the  cry  of  all.     Men  reckless  beat 

The  unsought  treasure  underneath  their  feet, 

Nor  cared  for  that  enriching,  now  the  world 

Like  streams  within  the  granite  mountains  curled. 

"  Who  does  not  know  the  mountain  '  Hamilton, ' 
The  silver  veins  like  little  rills  thereon  ?  — 
And  old  '  King  Solomon,'  whose  arteries  leap 
Beneath  a  stroke  as  giants  wake  from  sleep  ?  — 
Or  the  'North  Star,'  the  bright  particular  gem 
That  makes  the  lustre  of  his  diadem, 
Which  toil  shall  polish  till  its  marvelous  rays 
Bathe  all  the  State  in  one  stupendous  blaze  ? 
And  *  Sultan  Mountain,'  worthy  peer  of  these, 
Which  day  by  day  a  chance  observer  sees 
Flash  into  light  their  riches  of  freed  stores 
And  bleeding  silver  from  their  wounded  pores  ? 


u6  Letters  from   Colorado. 

All  bearing  gold,  nor,  as  a  jewel  tossed 
Within  the  waves,  in  silver  bulk  is  it  lost. 

"One  in  a  million —  well,  scarce  one  in  ten 
Won  fortunes  of  those  California  men. 
Why  ask  it  here  ?     Toil  hardly  has  begun 
To  delve  the  mountains  around  Silverton  ; 
For  toil  is  poor,  our  labor  must  be  fed. 
And  capital  is  slowly  hither  led. 
Our  State  is  bound  to  burn  a  silver  star 
Clear  in  the  zenith,  and  be  known  afar; 
Scarce  even  now  a  hearthstone  in  the  land 
But  from  her  borders  grasps  an  absent  hand. 

"  This  slower  growth  will  better  teach  the  State 

To  use  her  strength  and  give  her  counsels  weight. 

To  a  new  architecture  of  her  own 

These  granite  ranges  act  as  corner-stone, 

For  stalwart  sons  like  blocks  from  mountains  riven, 

On  firm  foundations  to  build  up  to  heaven. 

Her  rugged  school  should  mistress  be  of  tongues 

To  sound  the  tocsin  upon  human  wrongs, 

The  majesty  of  truth  in  every  word, 

Till  eloquence  with  bated  breath  be  heard  — 

Her  Forum  to  the  world  a  shining  light, 

With  Tribunes  proud  to  minister  the  right, 

And  filling  full  the  great  hearts  of  her  sons, 

With  Charity,  the  faith  of  noble  ones, 

Till  the  whole  world  must  reverence  and  honor 

The  heads  that  bring  new  dignity  upon  her, 


A  Colorado   Tramp.  1 1 7 

Pure  gold  in  soul,  tho'  prominence  and  place 
Be  sometimes  yielded  for  the  silver  case." 

A  sudden  quiet  with  his  silence  fell, 

His  hearers  all  seemed  rooted  by  a  spell, 

And  then  as  by  one  impulse  prompted,  rose 

A  cheer  that  shook  the  tent  like  storm  of  blows  — 

Cheer  after  cheer,  and  that  be-draggled  man 

Arose  and  bowed  as  only  courtiers  can. 

THE    MUSIC    OF    THE    RIVER. 

It  mocks  me,  the  weird  music  of  the  river, 
I  cannot  catch  the  key-note  of  its  song ; 

Dominant  in  the  major  chords,  and  ever 
Soft  in  the  minor  when  it  creeps  along. 

When  tempests  brood,  it  clangs  in  martial  chorus, 
Heralding  hosts  with  swift  but  muffled  tread ; 

When  the  storm  bursts,  an  army  all  victorious 
Beats  with  its  triumphs  requiems  for  the  dead. 

What  haunted  springs  a  willing  tribute  render 
To  swell  the  river's  majesty  and  might  ? 

What  memory  makes  the  sighing   notes  so  tender 
When  peace  touches  the  silver  waves  with  light  ? 

Sprite  of  the  river,  poet's  souls  are  fashioned 
To  gather  sounds  too  faint  for  ruder  ears  ; 

Give  me  the  key-note  to  thy  song  impassioned, 
And  I  will  make  the  world  in  love  with  tears. 


Ii8  Letters  from  Colorado. 

It  only  mocks  me,  with  a  gibe  of  laughter, 
The  elfin  ripples  tumble  over  stones ; 

And  even  the  white-fringed  garments  trailing  after 
Echo  suspicion  of  derisive  groans. 


LETTER    XXII. 

A  NORWEGIAN  GIANT. 

WE'RE  starting  out  this    morning  —  the    storm-king's 

changing  mind  — 

Has  moved  his  corps  for  battle,  and  left  the  sun  behind  ; 
A  mighty  potentate  the  sun  our  camp  is  all  agog : 
The  burro-trains  come  trotting  in  with  self-complaisant 

jog; 

An  everpresent  whittling   force   sits  round  with    stick 

and  knife, 

Assiduously  chipping  off  the  precious  hours  of  life  — 
One  only  article  of  faith  they  quite  revere  as  true  ; 
"  That  Satan  finds  some  mischief   still   for   idle  hands 

to  do." 

I  tried  to  pack  a  burro,  and  felt  by  far  more  proud 
Than  when  with  the  Regatta  Club,  displaying  for  a  crowd. 
Beelzabub  the  mite  was  named  —  it  showed  in  leer 

askance  — 
He  gave  my  half  placed  pack  a  kick,    and  me,  a  stolid 

glance, 


1 2O  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Another  kick,  and  pack    and  pride  were  mingled  in  the 

dust  — 
You  may  perhaps  have  heard  before,    "When  donkeys 

drive  needs  must. " 
Man  learns  some  physiologic  facts  by  contact  with  the 

ground, 

His  own  specific  gravity  is  accurately  found. 
And  how  much  natural  Adam  goes  to  compass  a  rebound, 
Judging  by  the  ungrudging  thwacks  with  which  I  squared 

my  debt !  — 
The  old  original  in  me,  is  not  extinct  as  yet. 

Looms  like  a  tower  above  us  all,  majestic,  self-reliant, 
A  splendid  specimen  of  man,  a  seven-foot  Norway  giant ; 
A  tawny  beard  flows  to  his  waist,  he  sports  a  lion  mane, 
Thro'  which  the  sunbeams  scintillate  like  mica  on  the 

plain, 
His  laugh  rings  like  a  bugle-blast,  his  blue  eyes  framed 

for  laughing 
Appear  to  heed  the  ills  of  life  no  more   than    comrade's 

chaffing. 
There  is  but  one  child  in  the  camp  ;    wax  is  he    in  her 

hands, 

Delilah  had  not  Samson  bound  in  more  enduring  bands. 
He  sits  or  stands,  he  walks  or  lies  in  any  attitude 
That  her  imperial  majesty  may  deign  to  call  her  mood  ; 
Her  baby  tyranny  is  odd,  and  many  busy  eyes 
Look   up     half    pleased,   half  envious   to    watch   her 

witcheries. 


A  Norwegian  Giant.  121 

Well  under  way,  a  tiny  stream, 

Spread  to  some  width  by  later  rains; 

Does  like  avenging  fury  seem 
To  bar  our  progress  o'  er  the  plains. 

The  burros,  all  averse  to  touch 

Their  unshod  feet  upon  the  water, 
Resist  persuasion,  shrink  and  crouch 

Like  timid  sheep  brought  up  for  slaughter. 

Men  pull  and  drive,  by  sheer  brute  force 

In  time  compel  the  midgets  over ; 
They  willing  then  pursue  their  course, 

Happy  as  bees  in  flowering  clover. 

It  falls  by  some  unwitting  chance 

One  burro  is  without  a  pack, 
Meets  the  Norwegian  giant's  glance 

Who  in  a  flash  is  on  its  back  — 

And  sight  grotesque  he  is  to  see, 

His  mighty  frame  perched  like  a  tower, 

The  mite  beneath  feels  destiny 
To  be  a  most  resistless  power. 

Astonished  at  the  huge  long  legs, 
That  almost  trail  upon  the   ground  ; 

He  tottering  moves,  and  succor  begs 
By  piteous  glances  cast  around. 


122  L  etters  from  Col 01  ado. 

But  braves  the  flood  ;  when  half  way  thro* 
By  some  sleight  of  his  hinder  quarters, 

Just  crouches  low,  and  slides  from  view 
His  burden  in  the  muddy  waters. 

A  second's  lull,  a  ringing  shout 
That  fairly  broadens  to  a  shriek, 

As  little  "  jack  "  trots  nimbly  out ; 
The  giant  slower ;  nor  so  meek. 

Even  his  merry  eyes  flash  bright 
With  anger  at  our  wicked  laughter, 

But  centering  on  his  doleful  plight, 
Good-natured  ripples  follow  after. 

And  catching  up  the  tricksy  beast, 

He  flings  him  o'  er  his  shoulders  fairly, 

Saying  "  I'  II  make  him  wish  at  least 
He  hadn'  t  been  so  pert  and  airy.  " 

Then  striding  back  into  the  river 
He  dips  the  little  creature  in, 

Stands  him  on  dry  land  all  c-shiver 
With  nimble  heels  if  soaking  skin. 

Our  laughter  then  grew  sudden  cool  — • 
None  envied  the  poor  brute's  position  ; 

All  thought  it  wise  the  man  to  rule 
By  humoring  his  disposition. 


LETTER   XXIII. 

HISTORY    OF    A    DESERTED    CABIN. 

"•THERE  is  a  destiny  "  —  perhaps  you  know  the  rest. 

I  dared  not  think  what  occult  ill  shaped  mine, 

When  suddenly  my  bronco,  zeal  possessed, 

Spurned  every  guiding  trick  of  hand  and  line, 

Sprang  with  a  leap  into  a  furious  speed 

Which  had  done  honor  to  a  better  steed. 

I  heard  in  fancy  the  old  mocking  jeers 

Pelting  like  hailstones  round  my  shrinking  ears, 

When  destiny  (a  jerk)  brought  up  before 

Th'  apparent  end,  an  open  cabin  door. 

Within,  no  sign  of  life ;  a  chimney  wide 
Held  long  dead  ashes ;  wedged  against  its  side 
A  rude  cot  bed,  whose  complement  of  hay 
Indented  as  unused  for  many  a  day, 
Showed  it  to  be  deserted,  entered  only 
By  tramp  belated,  or  some  freighter  lonely. 


I24  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Who  the  last  tenant  ?  I  was  idly  thinking, 

When  caught  my  eye  some  object  in  the  chinking, 

And  destiny,  that  wrought  me  good,  was  here  — 

A  mountain  paper  dated  back  a  year. 

I  send  you  what  of  worth  it  held  —  a  gem, 

And  fit  to  grace  a  poet's  diadem. 

Who  wrote  I  know  not,  nothing  tells  the  page, 

Tis  weather-stained,  and  sorely  blurred  with  age. 


"WE  HAVEN'T  ANY  HEROES  NOW.' 

"We  have  n't  any  heroes  now," 

Our  little  daughter  said. 
The  book  she  held  was  Ivanhoe, 

As  yet  not  wholly  read. 
Her  brows  were  knitted  into  thought, 

Her  eyes  with  interest  bright ; 
I  saw  a  shadow  she  had  caught  — 

Not  true  reflected  light. 

I,  glancing  down  the  "  Local  News  " 

Read  of  a  truer  glory, 
Of  acts  our  modern  pens  refuse 

To  fashion  into  story, 
Accounting  noblest  recent  deeds 

Only  the  simplest  duty, 
Which,  therefore,  fail  poetic  needs 

As  themes  of  perfect  beauty. 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  125 

My  "local  "  every  detail  gave 

Of  a  great  snowslicle,  falling ; 
Instant  within  an  icy  grave 

Ten  miners  close  enwalling  ; 
Two  out  of  twelve  alone  remained 

Above  the  tight-packed  snow, 
With  strength  that  Samson  might  have  shamed 

One  plowed  the  mass  below. 

And  one  had  strapped  his  armor  on, 

A  pair  of  snow-shoes  light ; 
His  spear  and  battle-axe  were  one, 

A  pole  to  balance  right. 
No  plumed  helmet,  visor,  casque, 

No  glittering  sword  had  he, 
Nor  veiled  his  visage  in  a  masque 

Of  ancient  chivalry ; 
But  bare  his  face  to  wind  and  storm, 

His  girdle  but  a  rope, 
His  breast-plate  coat  not  over  warm, 

This  champion  of  Hope. 

An  unseen  foe,  ungallant,  rude, 

Thrust  many  an  icy  dart 
In  savage  and  relentless  mood 

Straight  to  the  stalwart  heart ; 
Their  cold,  steel  points  congealed  his  veins, 

Blinded  his  fearless  eyes  — 
God  shield,  or  on  those  cruel  white  plains 

A  vanquished  knight  he  dies ! 


1 26  Letters  from  Colorado. 

A  fiercer  blast,  a  whirlwind  shock, 

A  cloud  of  stinging  spray ; 
The  foes  in  deadly  combat  lock, 

The  victor  speeds  away ; 
Up  hill,  down  dale,  his  flight  as  keen 

As  wild  bird  on  the  wing, 
Almost  before  his  form  is  seen 

His  shoe  —  glance  echoing. 

Urged  onward  by  a  harrowing  fear 

That  he  may  be  too  late, 
He  feels  creep  shudderingly  near 

The  stealthy  step  of  fate  ; 
If  —  if  he  faint,  his  comrades  die  ; 

Louder  than  trumpet  sound 
That  thought,  his  winged  footsteps  fly 

Above  the  glacier-ground. 

He  hies  him  like  a  loyal  knight, 

Not  for  a  lady's  love, 
In  joust  and  tilt  and  tournay  bright 

Prowess  and  skill  to  prove  ; 
He  throws  no  lance  before  the  crowd, 

'Mid  bugle-note  and  shout : 
His  audience  the  storm-fiends  loud 

That  compass  him  about. 

Reaching  the  neighboring  mine,  he  falls, 
Bursts  thro'  the  cabin  door, 

But  in  no  voice  of  triumph  calls,  — 
His  tilt  with  fate  is  o'  er ! 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  127 

And  they  he  sought  upspring  to  arms, 

As  never  yet  sprang  knight 
To  win  a  gentle  lady's  charms, 

Out  thro'  the  awful  night. 

A  noble  band,  how  brave,  how  strong, 

Know  only  those  in  need  ; 
Are  they  not  heroes,  fit  for  song, 

Their  act  heroic  deed  — 
The  little  maid  looked  shyly  up, 

Her  cheeks  all  rosy  red, 
Her  sweet  eyes  like  a  flower  cup 

With  dewdrops  yet  unshed. 

And  fell  her  voice  in  tender  tone  : 

"  Brave  knights  of  story  are, 
Yet  he  who  delved  the  snow  alone 

The  braver  seems  by  far  : 
An  easy  matter  '  tis  to  fight 

With  crowds  admiring  by  ; 
But  more  heroic  the  lone  flight 

That  won  its  goal  to  die.  " 

Our  Tenor  found  me  reading,  and  his  face 

Like  April  sun  a  moment  saddened  over  ; 
Then,  swift  as  April  sun  the  clouds  do  chase, 

His  handsome  visage  burst  its  cloudy  cover  : 
"  What  jewel  do  you  hold  ?  Full  well  I  guess 

If  set  by  whom  I  think,  its  theme  unknown, 
'Tis  worth  the  reading.     Of  such  daintiness, 

You  will  not  prize  it  for  the  theme  alone. 


128  Letters  from  Colorado. 

"  Poor  Poet,  with  a  fiery  spirit  bound 

In  cage,  so  frail  it  swayed  in  every  blast, 
And  shivered  even  at  summer  tempest    sound. 

Until  it  fell  and  crushed  the  bird  at  last. 
Poor  Poet,  he  had  come  with  meager  purse 

And  meager  frame,  both  to  replenish  here, 
He  loved  these  purple  skies,  and  tuned  his  verse 

To  sing  of  themes  our  miners  hold  full  dear. 

"  They  love  fair  Nature's  every  mood,  and  know 

To  find  the  germ  of  beauty  in  all  moods. 
If  storms   enwrap  the  Range's   haughty  brow, 

Or  sunset  silvers  all  the  vale  decked  woods ; 
He  loved  them  too,  and  of  their  lives   became 

A  tender  part,  a  comrade  much  beloved, 
Revered  and  tended,  while  poetic  flame, 

Fed  by  their  worship,  to  sweet  numbers  moved. 

"  His  table  lacked  not  game,  his  larder  never 
Knew  empty  shelves,  tho'  theirs   were  often 

bare, 
And  when  he  faster  failed,  night  fell  not  ever 

Without  some  pitying  brother  watching  there. 

He  died,  or  started  life  —  which  shall  we  say  ? 

Life  ends  in  death,  why  should  not  death  in 

life? 

*  Tis   simply  crossing  in  the  unseen  way 
Which  parts  achievement  from  the  whirl   of 
strife. 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  \  29 

"  We  buried  him  without  a  priest  or  prayer, 

With  heads  uncovered  and  eyes  blind  with 

tears, 
And  that  is  hallowed  ground  if  anywhere, 

For  every  heart  went  up  to  Him  who  hears. 
The  cabin  is  deserted.     I  had  thought 

No  gem  was  straying.  .  I  have  here  a  few, 
Some  given  by  him,  some  few  at  random  caught — 

Read,  they  may  be  a  thing  of  joy  to  you." 

"  The  City  in  the  Plains,"    I  later  found 
In  the  old  paper.     Those  on  other  themes 

Our  Tenor  lent  me,  and  their  strong,  sweet  sound 
Is  of  the  ranges  in  their  sunset  gleams. 

THE    RAINBOW. 

Offspring  of  sunshine  and  of  storm, 
Across  the  glistening  valley  spanned, 
Who  does  not  see  the  master  hand 

In  brilliant  hue,  and  perfect  form  — 

With  either  foot  on  valley  earth, 

Close  clinging  to  rough  mountain  sides, 
Till  but  a  glowing  arc  divides 

The  sun  and  storm  that  gave  thee  birth. 

Sweet  harbinger  of  peace,  shall  we 

Who  climb  life's  rugged  crags  and  peaks 
Heed  not  the  still  small  voice  that  speaks 

In  arc  and  sombre  canopy  ? 


1 30  Letters  fn*m  Cofonufo. 

There  is  no  bow  without  a  cloud, 
And  best  it  gilds  the  blackest  shroud. 

SEPTEMBER. 

How  royal  is  September's  reign  — 

Only  the  other  morning 
She  wore  a  cloak  of  silver  white — 

A  most  unique  adorning  ; 

And  barely  touched  the  aspen  boughs, 

With  low-trailing  hem. 
Yet  left  each  little  sleeping  leaf 

Bespangled  with  a  gem. 

In  vain  the  autocratic  pines 

Reared  a  defiant  crest, 
On  every  bristling  needle  point 

She  a  bright  opal  pressed. 

Crystals  lay  strewn  on  granite  stones, 
And  upon  window  panes, 

Mosaic  fret-work,  choice  designs 
Of  fens  and  woody  lanes. 

Enraptured,  the  uprising  sun 

Glanced  on  the  shimmering  white, 

Flooding  the  new  awakened  world 
With  irridescent  light ; 

And  fixed  by  a  too  ardent  gaze 
The  hues  to  fadeless  dyes, 

A  very  marvel  of  delight 
To  our  entranced  eves. 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  1 3 1 

By  all  this  lavish  color  spread, 

We  know  September's  here, 
Embodied  prophecy  of  peace  — 

The  crown  month  of  the  year. 

None  other  has  her  fragrant  breath ; 

Is  with  her  calm  endowed ; 
Can  boast  her  breadth  of  purple  skies, 

Her  graceful  specks  of  cloud 

None  other  has  her  tender  touch. 

Shy  as  a  maiden's  kiss ; 
Our  very  earth  seems  nearer  heaven, 

And  life  foretaste  of  bliss. 

TO   COLORADO. 

Thy  snow-capped  peaks  soon  chilled  the  summer's  faith, 
Dear  land  of  ours,  she  spurns  thy  proffered  love, 
And  with  a  quivering  hush  her  ripened  grace 
Falls  like  a  purple  glory  on  the  hills"; 
A  glory  that  not  all  her  wealth  of  green 
Could  emulate,  the  shadow  of  decay. 

But  we,  thy  children,  nor  repine  nor  grieve, 
Knowing  that  beauty  is  thine  handmaid  still, 
Already  draping  her  Autumnal  tints 
Against  the  blue  of  a  more  perfect  sky ; 
Where  flecks  of  clouds,  like  anchored  ships  at  sea, 
Seem  freighted  with  our  vanished  earthly  hopes, 
And  our  enamored  eyes  learn  to  look  up, 
Piercing  behind  them  to  the  borne  beyond. 


132  Letters  from  Colorado. 


Come,  try  our  Colorado  hills, 

Ye  who  are  slack  of  thought  and  theme ; 
Our  life  a  broader  measure  Mils 

Than  (by  your  gauge)  at  first  would  seem 
Forced  into  seeking  wider  scope 
To  compass  a  more  boundless  hope. 

No  narrow  streets  shut  out  our  sky, 

No  human  throngs  confuse  our  thought, 

Our  boundaries  are  mountain  high, 

And  these  against  the  blue  dome  caught ; 

While  regal  Peace  holds  empire  sweet 

To  where  the  blue  and  prairie  meet. 

Intense  our  life,  no  lily  hands 

Nor  idle  feet  find  favor  here  ; 
Harsh  are  unbroken,  rock- strewn  lands, 

And  snow-clad  peaks  supremely  drear; 
Till  through  the  lens  of  loving  eyes, 
Friends  seem  they  in  familiar  guise. 

Our  fair  young  state  far  dearer  is, 

For  perils  and  privations  past, 
Than  if  all  possibilities 

By  sure  success  had  been  forecast ; 
How  great  and  fathomless  our  love 
By  an  unswerving  faith  we  prove. 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  133 

Come  here,  if  searching  something  new, 

Not  fanciful  like  tales  of  old  ; 
Scenes  of  distress  are  ghastly  true, 

Bearing  some  streaks  of  purest  gold. 
Ye  cannot  in  a  hundred  years 
Exhaust  our  round  of  hopes  and  fears. 

Faint-hearted  heirs  of  prophecy, 

When  ever  yet  lacked  power  a  theme, 

Or  can,  while  joy  and  misery 
Comfort  and  pain  so  human  seem  ? 

While  man  confuses  right  and  wrong 

Themes  there  will  be  for  tale  and  song. 

THE   CITY   ON    THE   PLAINS. 

The  day  in  brilliant  colors  dressed 

Salutes  the  waking  valley, 
And  to  the  storm-beleaguered  west 

A  host  of  sunbeams  rally ; 
A  strip  from  the  cloud-body  shorn 

Along  the  foothills  hovers, 
And  forms  of  light  and  shadow  born 

Its  white-fringed  darkness  covers. 

When,  paling  to  a  softened  grey, 

The  sunbeams  quiver  thro'  it, 
The  scene  beneath  seems  far  away, 

But  perfect  as  you  view  it ; 


1 34  Letters  from  Colorado, 

A  city,  slumber-wrapped,  appears 
In  outlines  wondrous  tender, 

Its  crested  towers  a  castle  rears 

In  barbarous  strength  and  splendor. 

Dwellings  there  are  and  thoroughfares, 

Mosques,  thro'  whose  fretted  portals 
And  frescoed  nave  float  faint  the  prayers 

Of  unentombed  immortals, 
The  minaret,  the  stately  halls, 

The  donjon,  aged  and  hoary, 
To  the  bewildered  gaze  recalls 

A  scene  in  ancient  story. 

Holds  Montezuma's  unquiet  shade, 

Court  in  some  vanished  city, 
That  he  a  desolation  made 

Against  the  voice  of  pity  ? 
Do  his  enchanted  courtiers  glide 

Amid  that  gilded  pallor ; 
And  vaunt  in  shadowy  pomp  and  pride 

The  trophies  of  their  valor  ? 

Nay,  spite  of  an  ungentle  soil 

The  picture  is  prophetic ; 
These  ranges,  draped  in  silver  foil, 

Tho'  rugged,  are  magnetic ; 
That  sunlit  city  on  the  plains 

Foreshadows  but  the  glory 
Of  the  young  state,  when  she  attains 

The  wealth  of  ancient  story. 


History  of  a  Deserted  Cabin.  1 3  5 

Then,  gold  that  ribs  her  mighty  hills 

Shall  join  with  Art,  to  cover 
By  artificial  lakes  and  rills, 

Her  arid  prairies  over, 
With  forest  trees,  with  bright  parterre, 

White  lilies,  crimson  roses, 
Till  every  valley  blossoms  fair 

And  Beauty's  self  discloses. 

A  PRICELESS  JEWEL. 

I  wore  a  jewel  in  my  breast, 

Of  purest  ray  and  priceless  worth, 
For  me  who  knew  its  value  best 

Its  beauty  filled  the  whole  wide  earth. 

I  guarded  that  nor  blur  nor  dust 

Should  mar  its  lustrous  glittering, 
And  called  it  mine,  tho'  but  a  trust 

From  an  all  wise  and  careful  King. 

I  fell  to  vaunting  of  my  wealth, 

No  longer  counted  it  a  loan, 
When  sudden,  nor  by  force,  or  stealth, 

The  King  came  forth  and  took  his  own. 

I  dare  not  grieve  or  sum  its  cost, 

Or  weep  when  I  its  form  recall, 
"  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. " 


1 36  Letters  from  Colorado. 

For  stamped  by  His  own  loving  hand, 
How  safer  far  than  guarding  key, 

The  King  in  His  own  beauteous  land, 
Has  set  my  jewel  safe  for  me. 

Here  but  a  loan  ;  in  that  fair  place 
From  which  it  sheds  a  radiance  down 

To  light  my  steps,  by  living  grace, 
I  know  it  there  will  be  my  own. 

Oh,  ye  whose  jewels  wait  with  mine 
Once  more  to  glow  upon  your  breast, 

Look  up  with  me  where  now  they  shine, 
And  say  "The  wise  King  knoweth  best. 


This  last  in  manuscript  and  blurred  with  tears, 
And  life  and  death  alternate  link  the  years 

Of  our  earth-pilgrimage.     Methinks  had  J, 
A  jewel  laid  away  in  dust  to  rest, 

The  pain  and  loss  my  faith  would  sorely  try, 

How  could  I  say,  "The  wise  Kin- knoweth  best.' 


LETTER   XXIV. 

LEGEND    OF    LOST   TRIAL. 

AN  awful  presence  looms  before, 

Stamped  with  the  signet  seal  of  change 

Those  pond'rous  tomes  of  buried  lore, 
The  crown-peaks  of  the  Rocky  range, 

The  mighty  pinnacles  of  pride, 

Dividing  streams  on  either  side. 

Might  our  untutored  ears  but  hear, 
What  tales  gigantic  could  they  tell 

Of  desolation  made  more  drear 
By  earthquake  or  volcanic  swell, 

Which  the  refining  hand  of  Time 

Is  rounding  into  the  sublime, 

'Till  now  a  consecrated  haze 
The  royalty  that  age  has  won  — 

Enwraps  the  great  forms  in  a  maze — • 
Of  ambient  air  and  regal  sun, 

The  wondrous  soft  and  mellow  tone 

No  youth  can  hope  to  call  its  own. 


138  Letters  front   Colorado. 

Almost  appears  a  silver  rift 
Within  the  purple  arch  above ; 

So  pleased  their  snow-clad  brows  they  lift 
To  meet  the  proffered  kiss  of  love. 

Their  frown,  which  centered  storm  defies, 

Melts  to  these  Colorado  skies. 

Somehow  this  blue  sky  always  seems 
To  conjure  up  a  maiden's  smile 

Before  her  sinless  youthful  dreams 
Are  tainted  wiih  our  worldly  guile, 

When  life  is  all  one  glowing  morn 

And  Love,  a  babe,  but  newly  born. 


This  lovely  land  as  guileless  is, 

Yet  undisturbed  by  man's  rude  love. 

There  solitude  is  happiness  ; 

The  day  and  night  to  silence  move, 

And  purity  reigns  everywhere 

About  the  soft  delicious  air. 

Compelled  to  feel  that  earth  is  good, 

Enough  of  luxury  to  live, 
Having  content  and  solitude  — 

What  better  gifts  can  heaven  give  ? 
The  unpolluted  air  forgets 
To  harbor  sorrow  and  regrets. 


Legend  of  Lost  Trail.  139 


LEGEND. 

Suggestion  of  pathetic  tale  — 

Our  camping  ground  to-night,  "  Lost  Trail :  " 

As  yet  a  paradise  it  seems 

For  tenderest  poetic  dreams. 

All  nature  when  the  poet  wills 

In  sympathy  responsive  thrills 

To  meet  his  love.     My  heart  and  I, 

Wafted  from  scenes  that  nearer  lie, 

Some  sweet  enchantment  girding 'round 

Beyond  the  pale  of  sight  or  sound  — 

A  tinge  of  sadness  brimming  full 

Our  pleasure  in  the  beautiful 

With  poet's  pain,  a  truer  joy 

Than  bliss  without  its  sweet  alloy, 

As  measures  of  sublimest  strain 

Are  grandest  with  some  chords  of  pain. 

Our  Tenor  comes,  a  snatch  of  song 
Upon  his  rarely  silent  tongue, 
So  clear  and  liquid,  every  note 
Leaps  careless,  gushing  from  his  throat, 
That  lark  and  thrush  and  bob-o-link 
Have  given  him  their  best,  I  think. 

He  stands  in  half  uncertain  mood 
His  gaze  upon  a  dark  pine  wood 
That  up  a  rugged  rock-slope  creeps, 
Then  speaks  :  "  That  forest  sacred  keeps 


140  Letters  from  Colorado. 

The  secret  of  the  long  lost  Trail, 
A  quaint  but  simple  mining  tale. 

"  Four  white  men,  prospecting  in  Mexico, 
Met  by  some  camp-fire  a  young  Navajo, 
Who  told  of  rich  gold  placers,  only  known 
To  his  own  tribe.     In  spots  so  pine-o'ergrown 
None  but  an  Indian  could  trace  them  out, 
Wound  so  the  trail  the  underbrush  about. 

"  It  ended  as  such  themes  are  apt  to  end  : 

The  Navajo  impressed  a  bosom  friend, 

Both  to  the  white  to  act  as  muleteers  ; 

The  former,  deaf  to  council,  cautious  fears, 

At  known  as  unknown  dangers  lightly  laughed  — 

How  highly  spiced  with  Indian  guile  and  craft ; 

For  what  will  turn  a  miner  from  his  bent  ? 

They   came  where    now  we    are,  and  pitched  their 

tent, 

After  a  journey  of  no  little  care  — 
Then  had  the  trails  no  haven  anywhere. 

"  Quickly  a  trifling  gain  brought  hopeful  cheer, 

Small  gain  being  earnest  of  more  gain  anear. 

But  the  guides  feigned,  and  often  miles  from  camp 

Urged  their  white  comrades  many  a  weary  tramp, 

Till  sudden,  in  a  burst  of  faith,  one  told 

He  minded  now  where  lay  the  long  sought-gold. 

"Taking  three  mules,  provisions  for  some  weeks, 
Resolved  on  thorough  search  of  neighboring  creeks, 


Legend  of  Lost  Trail.  141 

Two  with  the  guides,  eager  at  break  of  day, 

Anxious  and  hopeful,  went  their  patient  way  ; 

Two  whites  remained  behind.    Ten  days  being  gone, 

Returned  their  comrades  footsore  and  alone, 

Telling  a  tale  more  marvelous  and  wild 

Than  nurse  could  frame  to  please  inquiring  child. 

"The  first  night  out  a  sheltered  nook  was  found 
To  serve  the  purpose  of  a  sleeping  ground, 
And  coming  morn,  one  helping  with  the  meal 
Bringing  a  pail  of  water,  did  reveal 
A  golden  nugget  lying  bright  therein. 
Appeared  the  prize  at  hand  they  hoped  to  win. 
In  truth  it  was  :  they  gathered  treasure  fast ; 
Toiling  untired  what  time  the  sun  did  last, 
Grew  eager  to  display  their  garnered  spoil 
And  bring  the  absent  ones  to  aid  their  toil. 

"  Not  trusting  over  much  the  Navajos 
And  fearing  to  convert  to  open  foes, 
'Twas  deemed  all  wise  the  party  should  not  break, 
But  each  in  turn  charge  of  the  treasure  take. 
Their  mules  were  packed,  the  Navajos  but  gone 
A  little  space,  before  the  whites  moved  on. 
The  trail  was  steep  with  underbrush  bedight, 
The  mules  and  drivers  wholly  hid  from  sight. 
They  searched,  they  shouted,  threatened,  raved 

swore, 

But  gold-packed  mules  or  drivers  saw  no  more ; 
And  seeking  patient  many  weeks  did  fail 
Ever  to  find  a  clue  to  the  *  Lost  Trail.'  " 


LETTER    XXV. 


RIVER     BEND     HILL. 

While  jogging  along  in  the  merriest  mood 
Over  nature's  own  road,  hardly  faultless  but  good, 
We  halt  where  for  teams  it  apparently  ends, 
Or  rather  breaks  off,  for  the  grey  river  bends, 
And  I  see  at  our  left  a  most  horrible  slope, 
Presenting  to  me  the  forlornest  of  hope  ; 
By  the  deep  ruts  of  wagon-wheels  cut  in  the  road 
Conclude  'tis  the  Silverton  road  ere  I'm  told. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  a  huge  post  firm  in  earth 
Recalls  to  our  Tenor  some  subject  of  mirth  — 
"A  sort  of  a  tramway,"  he  laughingly  cried, 
"This  post   where  our   great  prairie    schooners  are 

tied." 

Thus  far  a  fair  wagon  road  winds,  fair  enough, 
But  beyond  all  loo  rocky,  too  jagged  and  rough, 
So  this  tramway  was  fitted  to  meet  the  demand 
And  swing  clown  the  freight  to  a  leveler  land. 


River  Bend  Hill.  143 

Against  gravitation,  by  slim  power  held  back, 
They   sometimes   break    loose    with  a    thundering 

thwack, 

Tho'  snubbing  post,  aided  by  deadlock  and  chain, 
Is  mostly  successful  in  bearing  the  strain, 
And  certainly  lightens  the  terrible  force 
Which  would   else  crush   the  teams  in  its   pitiless 

course. 

He  deserves  a  gold  medal  who  ventured  it  first  — 
We  have  other  inclines,  but  this  is  the  worst. 

Some  comical  accidents  happen,  of  course  : 
The  venturing  teamster  just  screams  himself  hoarse 
While  his  wagon  is  pendent,  and  quakes  in  his  shoes, 
For  tho'  he  may  win,  ten  to  one  he  will  lose. 

I've  seen  a  wheel  smash  and  a  tongue  rudely  riven 

In  splints,  with  such  force  in  the  earth  it  was  driven  ; 

I've  seen  the  rope  frayed  like  a  delicate  thread 

As  the  ends  with  a  whiz  flew  in  flags  overhead  ; 

A  schooner  and  most  of  its  valued  contents 

A  mass  of  confusion  worth  very  few  cents  ; 

All  sorts  of  strange  freaks  on  the  innocent  track, 

But  never  a  freighter  consent  to  unpack ! 

A  sweet  fascination  lies  hid  in  the  risk, 

Each  hopes  he  can  win  if  he's  careful  and  brisk. 

All  is  it  or  nothing.     He's  hardly  a  man 

Who  only  attempts  what  he  easily  can. 

The  burros  keep  straight  on  ahead.     You  can  see 
By  that  long  zig-zag  trail  how  I  happened  to  be 


144  Letters  from  Colorado. 

When  descending  it,  at  such  a  vantage  of  height, 
As  to  watch  unobserved  a  most  laughable  sight  • 
A  heavy  ox-team  had  been  buoyantly  sent, 
Grew  fractious,  and  swift  as  a  rocket  it  went ; 
The  oxen  broke  loose  with  a  bellow  of  rage, 
Tore  over  the  plain  like  wild  beasts  from  a  cage, 
The  schooner  lay  wrecked  with  her  broadside  to  view, 
And  wonderstruck,  speechless,  hung  over  her,  two  — 
The  owner  and  one  who  had  helped  matters  thro1 ; 

The  latter  a  man  whose  grey  beard  plainly  told 
Of  a  wisdom  experience-boughten,  pure  gold  ! 
He  said  in  that  drawling,  self-satisfied  tone 
Used  always  by  saints  who  from  sinners  have  grown  : 
"  Your  ropes   did  n't   hold ;  seems    to   me    you'd  a 

known 

You'd  ought  to  be  careful  in  handling  such  stuff 
To  see  that  your  stay-chains  are  solid  enough." 

The  owner,  a  youth,  glared,  but  answered  no  word ; 

I  slid  by  in  silence,  as  never  I  heard, 

Knowing  well  useless  sympathy,  offered  to  ire, 

Is  only  supplying  dry  fuel  to  a  fire  ; 

The  scene  to  an  act  in  a  drama  was  equal, 

It  ends  with  a  moral  or  rather  a  sequel : 

On  my  very  next  trip  with  positions  reversed 
Were  the  very  same  actors  I  saw  in  scene  first; 
The  schooner  was  up,  and  with  vigorous  strokes 
The  teamster  was  giving  fair  shape  to  some  spokes, 


River  Bend  I  I  ill.  145 

When  the  grey-beard  adviser  appealed  for  his  aid  — 
"  Come,  give  me  a  hand  with  my  load  on  the  grade." 

I  watched  them,  and  seemed  to  divine  by  a  spell 
Some  tragedy  threatened.     A  whiz,  crash  and  yell 
All  mingled  together  in  discord  profound, 
A  lull  that  made  awful  the  absence  of  sound 
Broken  by  a  rich  voice  in  the  tenderest  tone  : 
"Your  ropes    didn't  hold;  seems   to    me    you'd  a 

known, 

You'd  ought  to  be  careful  in  handling  such  stuff 
To  see  that  your  stay-chains  are  solid  enough." 

The  grey  beard's  old   eyes  blazed  with  passionate 

wrath, 
His  will   could   have  swept  the  bold   boy  from   his 

path, 

But  a  glance  at  the  mischievous  impudent  eyes 
Recalled  his  own  words,  injudicious  if  wise, 
So  he  swallowed  his  choler,  untangled  his  mules, 
And  patched  up  his  wreck  with  his  enemy's  tools. 


LETTER   XXVI. 


ON    THE   DIVIDE. 


I  STAND  upon  the  Great  Divide  — 

See  rivers  flow  on  either  side, 

See  the  blue  vault  a  little  nearer, 

The  majesty  of  silence  clearer, 

Feel  the  sublimity  of  awe 

Pervade  the  universal  law, 

Where  grandeur  is  content  to  shine 

To  meet  alone  the  Eye  Divine, 

Where  sun  and  storm  in  routine  sweet 

Swell  with  grand  chords  the  anthem  meet 

Which  tells  to  listening  worlds  how  broad, 

How  measureless  the  power  of  God  ! 

The  vast  unbroken  solitude 
Disperses  every  meaner  mood  ; 
Bare  at  a  glance  man's  heart  is  laid  — 
He  sees  this  magnitude  arrayed 
In  all  the  pomp  of  rugged  might, 
Himself  compared,  a  very  mite, 


On  the  Divide.  147 

Yet  feels  a  sense  of  guarding  care 
Creep  like  a  promise  thro'  the  air ; 
The  Lord  who  shaped  this  boundless  space 
Made  last,  and  greatest,  Adam's  race, 
Accepts   his  praise,  how  faint  a  thing 
Amid  this  silent  worshipping. 

Ascending  these  defiant  walls 
The  light  and  shadow  equal  falls, 
But  looking  from  the  summit  down 
The  shadows  wear  an  awful  frown. 
Unheralded  to  far  off  homes 
Death  from  a  dark  niche  stealthy  comes, 
Spreads  with  a  cruel,  cunning  touch, 
For  the  worn  traveler's  tempting  couch  : 
And  its  white  drapery,  spotless  pure, 
Conceals  an  ill  no  balm  can  cure. 
Who  sleeps  wakes  never,  nay,  has  found 
'Twas  slumbering  on  enchanted  ground. 

My  host  speaks.     "  From  all  points  we  see 
Some  spot  made  sacred  by  a  tragedy. 
Two  gulches  here  lead  into  Silverton  — 
This  on  our  right  called  '  Stony,'  now  the  one 
In  common  use ;  for  Cuningham  is  dread 
From  snowslides  and  a  record  dark  of  dead. 
Leaving  his  heart  with  wife  and  babes  at  home, 
Only  last  year,  one  seeking  health  had  come. 
News,  storm  delayed,  told  of  a  dangerous  scourge 
Brooding  his  loved  ones,  pleading  wife  did  urge 


148  Letters  from  Colorado. 

His  swift  return,  and  he  with  undue  speed 
Fled  on  the  wings  of  terror  to  their  need. 
If  overtasked,  if  grief  too  keenly  tried, 
None  know.    Alone  in  *  Cunineham  '  he  died. 


"  I  call  this  one  to  mind  of  many  more. 

Over  that  savage  cliff,  entombing  four, 

Sudden,  for  even  with  foot  upraised  to  tread 

And  arm  outswung,  it  moulded  to  the  dead. 

One  was  the  carrier.     Of  busy  men 

Who  went  or  came,  it  was  the  custom  then, 

Indeed  is  now,  to  join  him  on  his  beat, 

As  often  keeps  his  trail  the  track  of  feet. 

He  being  missed  was  sought,  days  else  had  flown 

Perchance,  nor  made  their  tragic  ending  known. 

"  Mark  where  the  cabin  stands  behind  us  ;  night 
From  watcher  there  alone  shut  out  the  sight, 
And  hearts  were  there  which  every  ill  had  braved  • 
So  near  was  help,  which  haply  might  have  saved. 

"  All  the  year  round  our  mails  perforce, 
Or  rain  or  shine  must  take  this  course. 
Drear  beyond  words  when  winter  keen 
Covers  the  trail  now  plainly  seen. 
He  needs  be  brave,  the  hardy  wight, 
Who  skims  alone  this  desert  white 
With  never  rock  or  shrub  to  show 
A  ravine  from  a  drift  of  snow. 


On  the  Divide.  149 

He  earns  his  pittance,  nay,  is  spanned 
His  life  chance  by  a  tiny  hand, 
When  o'er  this  fearful  waste  he  glides 
Or  down  some  treacherous  chasm  slides. 

Yet  gabbling  tongues  will  mocking  say, 
A  carrier's  life  is  merest  play  ; 
We  know  too  well  his  arduous  ask. 
His  toil  nor  his  reward  do  task 
Tis  meagre  small ;  such  service  great 
Should  find  no  niggard  in  the  state, 
Not  here  with  scrimping  palm  be  doled 
The  unused  surplus  of  her  gold. 

"  This  time  I  make  my  twentieth  trip  :  — 
In  rain,  —  when  false  step,  hair-breadth  slip 
Had  surely  spread  my  mangled  bones 
To  whiten  on  some  gulch's  stones  ; 
In  sun  —  adoring  and  subdued 
By  the  transcendant  solitude  ; 
At  night  —  when  hungry  wild  beast  leered; 
From  covert,  crouching  as  I  neared ; 
Alone,  —  and  with  gay  friends  to  cheer, 
Not  once  without  a  throb  of  fear. 

"  These  tales  are  pitiful,  and  seem 
Like  horrors  of  a  fever  dream 
To  you  who  listen.    I,  who  tell, 
Know  their  reality  too  well, 
Remember  too,  the  first  who  died 
As  carrier  on  the  Great  Divide  — 


150  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Framed  like  a  fair  gigantic  tower, 
Limbs  set  for  fleetness  as  for  power, 
Swift-footed  was  he  as  a  deer, 
And  confidence  laid  every  fear  ; 
Freighted  with  hearts  our  mountain  mail, 
We  would  not  think  that  he  could  fail. 

"  This  same  route  he  had  traversed  o'er 

A  hundred  times,  or  less  or  more  ; 

Often  for  whim,  but  at  the  last 

Some  mightier  spirit  bound  him  fast. 

At  this  far  day  his  lonely  death 

Yet  quickens  the  reciter's  breath ; 

Sending  a  thrill  thro' him  who  hears, 

Till  sudden  start  unbidden  tears ; 

And  why  more  sad  his  fate  appears 

Than  that  of  many  killed  by  slide 

I  know  not.     But  this  Great  Divide 

Is  something  that  can  cow  man's  heart ; 

The  very  silence  makes  him  start 

As  never  loudest  cannon  could  : — 

The  sea  of  white  peaks  seems  at  feud 

With  all  his  manhood.     Peak  on  peak, 

North,  South,  East,  West,  where  'er  we  seek, 

Only  the  same  unbroken  ocean 

And  utterly  devoid  of  motion. 

"  Death  here  perhaps  takes  harsher  form 
Than  in  the  shock  of  slide  or  storm : 
What  e'er  the  cause  be,  sure  it  is 
No  fate  seems  pitiful  as  his. 


On  the  Divide.  151 

He  was  beloved,  well  known,  and  first 
One  thus  his  ne'er  old  story  versed 
And  gave  to  print.     It  merits  place, 
For  saddest  truth  has  lent  it  grace." 

A  scrip  he  tendered,  sere  with  age. 
I  took  this  story  from  the  page, 
And  followed  the  lone  pilgrimage 
With  swelling  heart.    I  know  a  tear 
From  your  eye  drops  upon  his  bier. 


OVER   THE   DIVIDE. 

(John  C.  Grinnell  left  Carr's  Cabin  after  a  storm  in 
November  1876,  to  carry  the  mail  to  Silverton.  He 
left  in  good  spirits,  his  friends  watching  him  start. 
Either  he  became  snow  blind  or  bewildered,  for,  miss 
ing  him  at  the  usual  time  for  reaching  Silverton,  a 
party  set  out  to  find  him,  which  they  did  in  Stony  Gulch, 
about  300  yards  from  the  summit,  his  charge  tightly 
grasped  in  his  hand,  showing  his  last  thought.  He  was 
of  splendid  build  and  dauntless  courage,  and  no  one  for 
a  moment  entertained  a  doubt  of  his  being  able  to  ac 
complish  that  which  he  had  done  hundreds  of  times 
before.  The  mail  was  carried  on  the  shoulder,  the 
carrier  using  snow-shoes.) 

Adieu !  brave  companions,  the  storm-king  has  passed, 
We  can  laugh  at  the  fury  that  still  swells  the  blast, 


152  Letters  from  Colorado. 

Still  moans  thro'  the  canons  an  impotent  wail  — 
The  pines  tower  triumphant,  the  poor  aspens  quail 
With  their  brown,  shriveled  leaves  like  an  army  in  rags  — 
The  savage  old  king  flaunts  a  few  tattered  flags, 
But  his  power  is  departed.     A  remnant  of  pride 
Yet  garlands  the  brow  of  the  fearful  Divide, 
And  tho'  blue  laughs  between  them,  those  ragged  grey 

clouds, 

Are  cold  as  the  barren  white  peaks  in  their  shrouds. 
Fill  the  glass  and  adieu,  bid  me  cheery  God-speed, 
And  forget  not  a  thought  to  a  comrade  in  need. 

With  a  swinging  gait  he  started, 

Secret  triumph  in  his  face  ; 
Confident  and  happy-hearted, 

Quickening  not  his  measured  pace, 
Till  our  eyes  no  longer  noted  — 

When  we  turned  us  with  a  jest, 
And  of  all  our  friends,  we  voted 

"Jack"  the  bravest  and  the  best. 

Sublime  in  his  manhood,  supreme  in  his  might, 
No  terrors  for  him  had  the  pitiless  white 
That  covered  the  chasms  and  gulches  from  sight, 
And  left  but  a  desert  all  trackless  and  wide, 
Entombing  the  trail  o'er  the  fearful  Divide. 

And  Ciningham  spotless  lay  bright  in  the  sun, 
With  no  boundary  to  mark  where  the  foothills  begun ; 
At  the  summit  a  tremor  of  fear  pierced  his  brain, 
And  horror  embodied  looked  up  from  the  plain, 


On  tlie  Divide.  153 

Where  even  in  summer,  a  silence  like  death 

Chills  the  blood  of  the  wayfarer,  numbing  his  breath. 

In  the  horrible  vastness,  converging  to  haze, 

Where  Stony  Gulch  elongates  under  his  gaze, 

It  was  there  where  he  fell,  with  the  blue  heavens  o'er  him, 

The  white  sea  and  solitude  stretching  before  him. 

We  marked  where  his  footsteps  had  faltered,  could  tell 
How  bravely  he  struggled  to  win  e'er  he  fell, 
Hearing  pulse,  thro'  the  silence,  the  waves  of  his  knell, 
Tracing  ever  a  circle,  despair  leading  blind 
To  the  void  of  stagnation  he  deeme'd  behind. 

Ye  who  have  seen  Stony  when  summer  suns  shone, 

Imagine  him  there  in  the  winter,  alone ! 

Can  words  paint  the  horror  that  turned  him  to  stone ! 

Yet  the  sleep  that  God  gives  his  beloved  had  crowned  him 
On  his  couch  with  the  cloak  of  the  weary  around  him, 
At  peace  with  himself  and  his  Maker  we  found  him. 


My  host  is  called  behind  ;  some  wretched  jack 
Slipped  from  the  cliff,  or  tangled  in  his  pack 
Over  a  more  than  usual  dangerous  pass ; 
They  sometimes  fall  a  crude  dismembered  mass ; 
A  packer  leaves  his  place  to  join  my  walk 
At  signal  from  my  host.     And  needs  our  talk 

Must  drift  to  snowslides,  "  Had  he  seen  a  slide  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  a  few."     "  Where,  on  the  Great  Divide  ?  " 


1 54  Letters  from  Colorado. 

"  No,  most  in  mines."     "  Would  he  not  tell  me  one 
Where  he  himself  had  been,  had  seen  and  known, 
The  facts  he  spoke  of  ? "     After  much  demurring 
He  told  me  this,  as  favor  great  conferring: 


THE   SLIDE   AT   THE    EMPIRE    MINE. 

All  day  a  steady  snow  had  drifted  down, 
Hiding  the  restful  hues  of  dun  and  brown 
On  friendly  hill-side,  and  the  slender  trail, 
That  bound  us  world-ward.     Did  no  spirit  quail 
At  the  appalling  doom  looming  before  us, 
With  the  unsettled  snow-mass  trembling  o'er  us? 

If  any  feared,  none  spake  ;  the  laugh  and  jest 
Rang  out  as  clear,  perhaps  with  added  zest. 
And  but  that  they  who  worked  at  night-shift  stood 
With  outstretched  palms,  in  half  unwilling  mood 
To  leave  the  fire,  no  outward  sign  betrayed 
If  any  felt  discouraged  or  dismayed. 

The  storm  had  lulled,  but  the  insatiate  wind 
Trailed  a  pathetic,  vengeful  wail  behind, 
When  the  brave  four  took  courage,  shut  the  light 
And  genial  glow  out  from  the  prying  night. 

Six  yet  remained ;  not  one  essayed  to  speak ; 
The  silence  broken  by  a  stifled  shriek 
That  blanched  all  lips,  and  every  man  upsprung ; 
Wide  to  the  night  the  cabin  door  was  flung. 


On  the  Divide.  155 

A  rude  gust  quenched  our  lamp,  and  darkness  gave 
To  unknown  ill  the  horror  of  the  grave ; 
A  whirring  din,  a  roll  like  distant  thunder, 
On  coming,  as  the  hills  were  rent  asunder, 
And  with  hushed  breath  we  each  the  other  eyed, 
Knowing  we  faced  that  awful  thing,  a  slide  ! 

Our  world-ward  trail  was  sheltered  by  a  ledge, 
(Rising  on  one  side  like  a  rocky  hedge,) 
That  served  for  shielding  some  the  cabin  door, 
And  as  a  quaking  mass  went  thundering  o'er 
Beyond  the  trail,  leaving  it  bare  and  steep, 
Into  a  yawning  chasm  fathoms  deep, 
Our  unbound  hearts  leaped  upward  with  a  sigh  — 
For  us  the  King  of  Terrors  had  passed  by. 

The  shaft-house  from  the  cabin  lay  some  feet, 

Barely  five  score  :  but  every  tempest   beat 

With  cruel  fury  thro'  a  small  ravine 

Across  the  trail,  wholly  devoid  of  screen  ; 

And  quite  lost  now.     Instinct  our  only  guide, 

We  labored  blindly,  and  on  either  side 

A  comrade  found.     These  both  alive  were  saved, 

The  shaft-house  walls  were  whole,  the  roof  had  caved 

And  buried  two,  quite  dead,  tho'  barely  cold  — 

A  sight  that  cowed  the  bravest  to  behold. 

Will  Clark  was  but  a  lad,  not  yet  eighteen  ; 
We  knew  some  household  darling  he  had  been ; 
For  he  had  gentle  speech  and  dainty  ways, 
Appeared  to  yearn  for  our  good  will  and  praise, 


156  Letters  from  Colorado. 

The  other,  Jack  Monroe,  was  the  reverse  : 
He  sandwiched  every  sentence  with  a  curse, 
Defiant  seemed,  alike  of  God  and  man, 
To  such  extremes  his  daily  actions  ran  ; 
Yet  strange  to  say,  his  friendship  for  the  youth 
Was  strong  as  death,  and  beautiful  as  truth. 

We  found  his  giant  body  wedged  between 
The  splintered  rafters  ;  an  effectual  screen 
From   their  sharp  spears,  shielding  the  tender  frame 
As  oft  his  tongue  had  sheltered  him  from  blame ; 
One  great  hand  held  the  slender  fingers  close, 
One  couched  the  head  in  its  last  long  repose, 
And  thus  they  sleep,  our  pitying  hands  provided, 
Who  living,  loved,  in  death  were  not  divided. 


LETTER   XXVII. 

AN    INCIPIENT   MINER. 

A  WEEK  I  've  been  in  Silverton, 
Our  tenor  and  his  train  just  gone 
Across  the  Range,  and  Eastward  bound 
Over  the  same  fair  pleasure  ground 
That  was  to  me  one  long  delight. 

Parted  from  him,  and  looking  down 

Upon  the  little  mining  town, 

Find  nothing  bright  in  trim-laid-street, 

After  the  winding  trails  we  Ve  crossed, 
In  all  the  faces  that  I  meet 

Seem  searching  for  a  comrade  lost. 

Yet  not  without  a  theme  for  hope 

Am  wholly  left,  for  mining  schemes 
Are  floating  in  unmeasured  scope 

Among  my  busy  waking  dreams. 
Your  letter  comes  with  warnings,  late  ; 

Already  I  am  bonded  over, 
Have  caught  the  mining  fever  —  fate 

Alone  knows  when  I  shall  recover. 


. 


158  Letters  from  Colorado. 

I  Ve  started  right,  engaged  a  "  Mine-Expert " 
To  see  surveys  and  magnify  the  dirt, 
Note  the  assays  and  probe  with  learned  eyes 
To  utter  depths  of  mining  mysteries. 
Tho'  in  the  abstract  I  do  guess  his  meaning, 
Cannot  be  sure  to  which  side  he  is  leaning  — 
Buyer  or  seller,  may  perhaps  be  sold, 
But  boughten  wisdom  should  be  worth  some  gold 
Your  logic  fails  to  make  my  folly  plain. 
Being  determined,  all  advice  is  vain. 
I  came  to  learn,  and  like  an  earnest  scholar 
In  search  of  knowledge,  scorn  to  grudge  a  dollar. 
Success  is  but  another  name  for  pluck, 
And  cowards  they  who  never  try  their  luck ; 
Right  hath  he  none  who  cannot  well  defend  it, 
"  Nor  money  needs  who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it." 

H.    L.   WASON. 
WAGON  WHEEL  GAP, 

Rio  GRANDE  Co.,  COLORADO. 


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